And Other Wilderness Pursuits
by silverluna
Summary: At his wit's end, trying to deal with legal and emotional aspects of finalizing his divorce, Lassiter reluctantly goes to Henry and asks for advice. But after a garbled call from Shawn suggesting trouble, Lassiter and Henry team up to find him. NOT SLASH.
1. Chapter 1: Set The SAT NAV To Hell

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Also, have borrowed a line from a song by BT called "Dreaming"— "Nothing can be as savage as love." Not mine, don't sue, thanks. And, as always, story/chapter titles which represent song lyrics are property of their own respective owners and don't at all belong to me and I am not making any profit from any of this. Just for fun. K?

Main Characters: Carlton Lassiter, Henry Spencer

Minor Characters: Shawn Spencer, OCs

Genres: Hurt/Comfort (Whumpage); Drama; Friendship; Action/Adventure; Angst

Timeline: Season 4, post "Shawn Takes A Shot In The Dark" (references made)

Summary: At his wit's end, trying to deal with legal and emotional aspects of finalizing his divorce, Lassiter reluctantly goes to Henry and asks for advice. But after a garbled call from Shawn, who may be in some trouble in the woods, Lassiter decides to team up with Henry for an impulsive trip to find Shawn.

Author's Note: Loooooooooooooooooong overdue story for **Egorstandish**, who requested a Henry and Lassiter centric story where Lassiter, as a last resort, goes to Henry for advice. Lassiter is also to be sick. Here goes. ;)

I promise I am still working on my other WIPs; but I just couldn't wait on this one any longer.

Reviews, feedback, thoughts, insights and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated. Thanks and enjoy!

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**. . . And Other Wilderness Pursuits**

A _Psych_ story

by silverluna

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**Chapter One: Get In And Set The SAT-NAV To Hell**

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For most of his life, Carlton Lassiter prided himself on being ground in reality—early life had taught him quickly that having even a sliver of a dream was but a potential on paper—no good without the right amount of action bring it to life. Besides, he'd had no time for dreaming—and no use for it. Things hurt either way.

And when she came into his life . . . things got even worse. Or so he could see it now—but the truth was, Carlton had been fiercely in love with Victoria. _"Nothing can be as savage as love." _Now that he knew it . . . now that he'd loved her, only her, for many of his good years . . . denying it was going against fact.

But it was somewhere in that reality he existed in that held the sliver of his dreaming . . . of an entire lifetime with Victoria—and a house, a family, a family pet, family vacations, everything married people wanted when they wanted it together—growing older with her holding his hand, with her head resting on his shoulder.

Lassiter slammed his fist on his desk, reminding himself to take a break from torturing himself. He had actual police work to do, and he knew he had to get to it.

But what was this love worth, anyway? Monetarily, it must have a huge a price tag. Or at the least, her lawyers were doing their damnedest to stonewall his lawyers into believing that. Had he known that simply by signing his name on a legal document would bring more emotional and financial torment than he had been dealing with before—would he still have granted her the divorce? Why had he been dreaming under the assumption that signing his name meant _only_ a permanent severance from her—they would no longer share the same name, the same bed, the same air? Truth was, they hadn't been "husband and wife" for years in spite of having the marriage certificate which proved it.

Lassiter's fingers curled into hard fists. A real life effect he could not deny—though he had been pretty good at doing so so far—was that strain of (not) dealing with all of this was starting to cut into his health. Sleep came less and less, so he pushed himself to keep at work. Dark circles under his eyes blackened, his skin itself taking on a gray sheen. He looked dull all over, as if drawn on the ground in white chalk. It was almost inevitable that he made himself susceptible to the latest seasonal illness creeping around the station—felling officers left and right. Not one seemed to be just a carrier; everyone it touched went down.

Lassiter huffed, barely having had a chance to skim the new case file he'd been handed before Vick wanted to see him. So it felt, anyway. At his desk, he'd turned the few pages, not bothered in the least by his audible cough which shook his body and echoed down the corridors of the police station.

Focusing on what was written and typed in the file was more than a little trying through his bleariness, a condition which usually only occurred after a shift of eighteen to twenty hours or more and counting, but Lassiter wasn't giving into the reasons why he felt like this after a brief period of just three hours. He'd only had the file for less than an hour—following stacks of paperwork from a previous investigation—and had accepted it with a batch of poorly disguised sniffles.

_Los Padres National Park,_ he read through for the fifth time, followed by the ominous words _"wildlife disturbance"_. He found a gem of annoyance at the scale of what a case like this might entail—and wondered if there wasn't a rookie or two he could hand this off to—hell, why wasn't the California Department of Fish and Game pulling their weight? But then he stumbled across the words _"alleged disappearance"_—a sure sign that the DFG had caved to ask for "outside" help. Hell, it was this or go to the Feds; the lesser of two evils, Lassiter considered. And damn, how often (too many times for him to count) had "alleged disappearance" changed into meaning "probable homicide"?

Other words jumped out that held his attention, but not for long. Maybe a fourth cup of coffee would do good, he thought, pretending he hadn't already downed three cups as if they were shots within only a hour and a half of being at the station.

Luckily enough, he didn't get the chance. He almost dragged his feet, going before Vick. He'd kept himself on duty, working without complaint, but he'd already been gently warned about this a few days prior, and now his number was surely up.

Carlton could feel a tickle in the back of his throat, but he ignored it. He _did not_ get sick, not ever. Lassiter stretched his lips before pursing them as he remembered _one_ time. . . . Vick stared at him through a massive curtain of the cold medicine he'd plied his body with—for preventative measures, he'd told himself. She almost wavered before him like a mirage—but her "Go home, that is an _order_, Detective!" was much too loud and clear.

"Chief—"

Karen's nostrils flared. "Do not test me! We are already short Beckett, McNab, Dobson, Sanchez, O'Neil and at least three others because of this bug that is making its way around the station. Last thing I need is both you and O'Hara bedridden when I need you most!"

"Chief, I don't get sick," Lassiter protested. He tried to clear his throat, swallowing the tickle and ignoring his watering eyes. It left him gasping. "O'Hara doesn't either. We're detectives."

Vick pointed to the door. "Get out of my sight for the day, Detective! Go now before I have a detail assigned to guard you for 24 hours."

He was about to point out that she couldn't possibly have any extra uniforms to spare when he noticed her very hard glare. This was not up for discussion; sometimes, he knew better than to get on her bad side. Somehow, she always managed to win the pissing contest. Then Lassiter remembered Juliet had explained this to him—it was because of the Chief's rank.

"I will _not _have you being the _cause_ of keeping this bug alive because you insisted on staying here when you were not at your best. And I don't want to _hear_ a word about you _just_ being a carrier."

_Damn._ Lassiter frowned. Again, he wanted to contradict her and tell her there was never a time that he wasn't at his best. Even at 4 o'clock in the morning after pulling a triple. He sighed. "Twenty-four hours?"

Karen sighed. She wanted to say forty-eight—give it a solid two days—but she suspected he would either go stir crazy or she would need him before that much time had passed. "Yes. And I will call you if I need you—otherwise, stay the hell away, Detective."

Lassiter recognized this pattern of her speech; she only used excessive "hells" when she was worried about her officers, of whom she pretended to have only minimal connections to. Only what was required. Maybe it was the medicine talking, but he recalled the crazed look in her eyes following the attempts on his and McNab's lives. Lassiter swallowed a lump, knowing suddenly that she was not making empty threats about that detail.

Carlton had no intentions of sitting around his apartment for the entire day. Lately, there had been too many remainders—reminders, he corrected to himself with a grunt. Mostly every second of his free time not spent asleep (when he could get it) had been spent in courts where he had to see Victoria almost daily. He was so tired of lawyers; he was tired of his ex-wife—a notion he never guessed would come to pass. More than a notion. It had taken him ages to fall out of love with her, and these last days had finally found his heart coming undone from hers, free. Sure. Free.

It hurt like repeated, ruthless kicks to the groin. When he was at work, there was little time to spare to give his ex-wife any consideration. But like the period of two year trial separation, this period was not an easy one. It was manageable; he was an adult; well, this wasn't really true. Yes, he was an adult, certainly, but it was "manageable" because he kept much hidden, took things out namelessly on the range, or on perps when it wasn't conspicuous. And his partner . . . he had let her in on some things, which had helped. But the more and more he thought of it—and the less and less he felt comfortable talking about with O'Hara—Lassiter considered he needed to talk mano-a-mano with a person who knew what he was going through. Because he had been there himself.

He did not want this person to be Henry Spencer.

But Lassiter was discovering he had less and less choice. Or options. There were a few on the force, but Lassiter had never been "friendly" with them, and it seemed funny to belly up to the bar with any of these men to commiserate about their miserable ex-wives. Besides, the last thing he really needed was it getting around the station that he was an emotional wreck. Carlton didn't mind telling O'Hara some things because he knew he could trust her not to spill the beans. She was a good friend, but she was not a man.

Plus, she wanted to help too much. He needed help, but much less of the feminine induced emotional kind; he didn't want to talk anymore about his _feelings_. Even considering his feelings regarding Victoria and their failure to be a successful couple brought Lassiter to a hard, bruised knot still turning his insides black and blue. And if he thought too long on it, there were notions streaked with red—the color of unshed tears—while he clenched his jaw and ground his teeth. Then he would inevitably reach for scotch. Or his gun, if he could get to the range. There wasn't too much longer he could go on like this.

Still, there was no guarantee that Spencer _would_ talk to him. The two certainly didn't have the best history; they had one partially successful fishing trip—on which Henry nagged him to death about the proper ways of holding his goddamn fishing pole—and their brief stint as mismatched "partners"—Henry constantly stepping on Lassiter's toes—when the younger Spencer had gotten himself abducted. In the end, both had survived—as well as the younger Spencer—so there wasn't exactly bad blood between them, things left unsaid. Yet, there wasn't really good blood there either.

Lassiter scowled, feeling his steeled stomach turn. This was the lowest of the low, being reduced to what he was about to do. Almost grovel . . . because he was that goddamn desperate. This was the result of the hole his ex-wife had gouged out of him. And, he knew she was happy about it too.

Lassiter groaned, hating that, even though she was long gone, even though it was over (in some ways, in other ways, not over), his body would still react to the physical stress—his muscles retaining their memories of pain, the too familiar tightness in his shoulders and neck, the familiar ache at the bridge of his nose spiderwebbing far back into his head. With it, his jaw, his stomach, the backs of his legs—everything that was muscle on his lank, taut frame, that _was_ everything—could remember how bad it felt to love her and despise her in the same breath. How she could make him heartsick when she wasn't even here any more?

Goddammit, this was without a doubt Henry Spencer territory.

Henry was living proof that there was survival after divorce. That attraction returned; that the female of the species was not a creature to be repulsed, or feared, or sniveled about; Lassiter clenched his fists. He just wasn't there yet. Women were still his enemies, with the exception of his partner and his chief, but he wasn't comfortable not yet resenting women in some ways.

She had been the great love of his life.

But Henry had also lost his great love . . . and he . . . Lassiter clenched his fists tighter, feeling his stomach also clench tighter, then his heart squeeze hard in his chest. How was he ever going to get _there_? Was it even possible to fall in love again? He had trysts for his physical needs and emotional comforts—but he didn't love any of these women. He'd gone through Lucinda's loss with dull aches, missing the sharp warmth of her taut body, her soft hair against his cheek when they were at rest, the way she filled his bed and his arms. But what they'd had wasn't love. She had been the first to tell him that. She had been the last.

Lucinda had been so unlike Victoria; it was an easy sell. Neither had entered in thinking they'd end up as lovers—wrapped up in each other's arms, carrying on in secret. He'd breathed her in, held her tight as if he couldn't bear to let her be without him, but he'd never . . . given up on his wife.

Lassiter drove to Spencer's house without calling first, making the assumption that Henry would be home, rather than out getting sunburned on his boat, or imparting in other mundane chores of retired life. He did so to leave himself the chance to change his mind, to walk off of Spencer's property with nothing—without even having to ask, or worse yet, being rejected. Lassiter knew he could deal with barbs and taunts, suspecting Henry would have plenty when he discovered the real reason for Lassiter's uninvited visit. But if Spencer said no, or flat out refused to even have a discussion; again, Lassiter's steeled stomach twisted. At this point, he was willing to give up valuable and desired hours at the range as long as he didn't have to make this errand.

Carlton sighed. He got out of his car.

On his way up the driveway, Lassiter briefly considered what Henry would make of his unannounced arrival. He hoped, because he was alone, that Henry wouldn't jump to conclusions, thinking that something had happened to his son. He squinted, considering the implications, wondering, if such a time came to pass if Vick herself wouldn't personally be the one to call—who would insist on making the notification herself. Lassiter wondered if Henry had considered this as well; he'd caught the man working outside, squinting down the driveway as Carlton made his way. Carlton hoped Henry wouldn't mistake his slow, measured steps as a sign of personal bad news. Henry stopped, staring, waiting for Lassiter to speak. Lassiter felt sheepish then. He scrambled for one of the many practiced openers he'd had for this meeting.

Henry glared at him, but relaxed the minute tension that had crossed his face and widened, slightly, his eyes. He could read Lassiter's hesitation, though it was new to him, but realized quickly that Lassiter's presence hadn't a thing to do with some jackassery of his son. No one had been impaled, or shot, or spirited off by bears. That Lassiter knew of, Henry thought. It was an odd sight, to see the gruff, usually growling Head Detective shuffle his feet, then pull the skin of his face tight against his bones. Whatever he was trying to spit out looked like it might be about to kill him, so it couldn't possibly be about Shawn. And there was no apology in his eyes, or determined setting of his mouth.

In fact, Lassiter seemed ready to bolt at any second. But there had to be a good reason that he was here. "Henry, glad I caught you," he spoke, an awkward smile on his lips.

Henry repressed a smile of his own, because the detective's words belied anything willing—his body language professed a great suffering. He wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. Lassiter looked hard pressed to form actual words following his false greeting. Slightly annoyed, Henry cleared his throat. His mind had been on planting new shrubs around the front of his house, and tending to his small garden's pest problem, but now he found himself curious at to just what could make Santa Barbara's Head Detective struggle with speaking.

"Something I can do for you, Carlton?" Henry asked finally after too long a silence. He raised an eyebrow. "Am I wanted for questioning?"

Lassiter shuffled closer, shaking his head. "No, I'm not here on behalf of the SBPD."

It didn't escape Henry that his teasing had failed to miff Lassiter's paranoia at all. He'd figured Lassiter would jump all over that, demanding to know what crime Henry may have committed—or thought he committed—that would require a "voluntary" trip to the station. He decided to try another tactic. "Then why are you here?" he barked. Lassiter stopped dead, just a few feet from him. He looked . . . defeated.

"I . . ." Lassiter jumbled some words together under his breath, but finally looked Henry in the eyes. Ready to take his medicine. "I need your help."


	2. Chapter 2: Or Would It Be Purgatory?

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: THANK YOU SO MUCH for the wonderful first chapter reviews! I loved hearing from all of you! :D

I apologize for the delay; good news is that Chapter 3 should be much faster coming than this one. XD

Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated. Thanks and enjoy!

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**Chapter Two: . . . Or Would It Be A Purgatory? **

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"My help?" Henry repeated, just to be clear. "Really?"

Lassiter nodded, clenching his jaw.

"For what?"

Lassiter now looked paler than before, as if detailing an explanation was even worse than spitting out the reason for his unexpected visit. Before all this, he had hardly ever let silence "do the talking" for him, other than when it wasn't necessary to do more than glare or scowl or glower in the general direction of whatever stupid question it was that was asked, or even stupid answer. But wasn't his mouth filled up with ellipses, long pauses, or words that were too embarrassing to say aloud? Say to someone who must know a little something about all this crap. Lassiter swallowed hard, feeling Henry glare at him as _he_ waited impatiently for Lassiter's "stupid answer."

Still, he fumbled. His mouth was dry. Henry was the only one Carlton knew who had suffered through—and survived—a divorce—and what was more, from a woman he was still deeply in love with. Or at least still cared deeply about. He frowned. He hated that it felt like some quack had removed his heart with a rusty pair of pliers every time the slightest notion of Victoria filed into his skull. It was talk to Henry Spencer or freaking die at this point, he reminded himself.

"You see—"

His train of thought was interrupted by an annoying, grating jingling that emitted from Henry's clothes. Lassiter watched Henry give himself a pat down, looking for the source of the sound. He huffed. "Shawn got ahold of my phone and programmed this noise pollution for my ringtone," Henry explained off-handedly as he searched. "For the life of me, I can't figure out how to get rid of it."

Lassiter's jaw tightened further, with annoyance. He thought he'd appropriately psyched himself up for these words, was ready to give them life but an interruption was staying them, forcing them back into his mouth. He might choke on these words. _She'd_ . . . get some messed up satisfaction if that happened, he was too certain. She'd . . . get _everything_ when she wanted very little (so her lawyers had told his—_very little_). Of his soul.

Henry's phone was in his back pocket. As he opened it and it passed by his face, a look crossed his features that Lassiter tried not to recognize. Instead, he blurted, "Henry, can't that wait?"

Henry flicked his eyes in Lassiter's direction and held up a finger—surprisingly, not the middle one. Still, Lassiter kicked at the driveway, ignoring how Henry blurred into two, then three, versions of himself for a second. All of them had a phone to his ear, all wore that particular tautness around the eyes and mouth, all were throwing his voice into thicker territory, as if preparing to steer off wildly in one emotional direction or another. Carlton realized when he heard Henry's voice that the man was again whole, jittered back into just one body. Lassiter blinked a few times just to make sure he could see straight.

"Shawn, is that you?" Henry asked unnecessarily, because it sounded like he already knew. Lassiter winced, held in a groan.

"D—aad," Shawn's voice crackled. Lassiter raised an eyebrow. Henry must have unwittingly pushed the speaker button. He didn't have to feign his disinterest, and continued to shift his weight like something feral, unable to settle. There were a few pops of static, then sounds of what might be a person or a large animal moving through underbrush. "I'n—a case."

"Shawn? You're in and out," Henry said wearily, raising his voice.

"Case, Dad," Shawn repeated. More rustling.

"Case?" Henry repeated. "What the hell?"

"Po—"_ Crackle._ "You hear me? . . . chars." He mumbled something else, but Henry couldn't make it out.

"Speak up!" Henry ordered.

"Night be—" There was a sharp zing, then Shawn tried to repeat what he'd said. "Might be—nnnn—" _Zing._ "Over ny head, Dad. Gus—"

Henry felt a headache on the verge. "What about Gus?" he almost shouted, causing Lassiter to raise an eyebrow, with actual interest.

"Not here," Shawn said, over a backdrop of crackles and pops. "Work retreat. I'mnnn my own out here."

'_Out here'? Oh, hell._ "Shawn, just where are you?"

"Ah zuuds," Shawn said in tune with high static.

"What? Say that again?" Henry demanded.

"German," Shawn's voice whispered twice. The second time it sounded to Henry as if Shawn had said 'Germain' with a cough on the 'G' so it almost sounded like it started with a different letter. There was another series of cracks and pops, then Shawn continued, "—is name. —an A-chuh. I'm—" The call ended.

Henry squinted in the light. He stared at his phone, and sighed heavily. "Damn it, Shawn."

Lassiter stared at him. He was going to pretend he hadn't been eavesdropping, but what he'd heard brought out the detective in him. "You think it's a matter for the police?"

Henry shrugged. "Hell if I know. Knowing Shawn, it could be anything. Could be nothing. Probably is nothing. I'm not going to waste police resources on a bunch of maybes." He started pressing buttons, then put the phone back to his ear. "There had to be a good reason he called me," he mumbled. The line rang but Shawn didn't pick up. Henry cursed into Shawn's voice mail, then demanded a call back immediately.

Against his will, Lassiter's mind churned. Another lump formed in his throat, but he couldn't be certain it wasn't just out of a numbing fear that something more pressing would pull Henry's attention away. This was possibly even worse than being outright rejected—never getting the chance to ask in the first place. He sighed under his breath, and forced himself to ask Henry to elaborate.

"He said it was for a case, and then he hinted at being in trouble. But like I said, trouble for him could be that he got a splinter in his palm." Henry wasn't fooling either of them, though both of them pretended he was.

Lassiter nodded, but he knew as well as Henry that Spencer might be in some other kind of trouble, some that involved weapons and/or angry criminals. _Christ._ This had to be the day he had to come talk to Henry, didn't it?

Henry chewed his lip. He was still on the same track. "Except . . . I think he might have said his case involved poachers." He blew out a long breath. "I need a beer. You want one?"

Lassiter nodded again without really hearing him. He followed Henry to the door but stayed on the stoop while Henry went inside. Henry was gone long enough to bring Lassiter new dread. And his medicine addled mind had started making associations that might not even be linked. _Poachers._ That word, broken two or three times by static and environmental noise, difficult to make out, could have—if things were simple—been another word. But if Henry had heard it too . . . Lassiter clenched his teeth.

Carlton had taken some of the case files from his desk, intent upon putting himself to good use (and distracting himself as best as he could) if Henry had not been at home. The very top of pile was the latest one he'd been given, the one he'd tried to study before Vick had made him go to her office. The files were on the passenger seat of his car. Tossing a glance over his shoulder, Lassiter walked down the steps, back down the driveway. He ignored the shimmery heat rising from the asphalt, the blur of manicured grass on either side of it. He wished, fleetingly, for a cool towel to place at the back of his neck.

She came out of nowhere, at the end of one particularly grueling session, her white hands making a reach for him. Carlton actually flinched away; the two of them really did belong on opposite sides of the courtroom. She was trying to tell him something, trying to say, "That isn't me," but he knew who she really was. Or he really thought he knew Victoria. Truth was, he had been shocked when she denied him affection, refusing to kiss him goodbye; when her demeanor grew icy as she sat at the kitchen table; when she told him, without much warning—_after_ contacting a lawyer—that they needed a trial separation.

Just what . . . did he do wrong?

But they were hardly ever one person; their moments together burned out quick as Independence Day sparklers. They were lovely, innocent moments, they smelled of cordite, and had made him believe, at the time, that the good things could last.

Carlton didn't hear the screen door open or close, couldn't place its dull thud against the frame. He couldn't even been sure Henry's voice _was_ wavery—it could easily be another trick of the heat. Though he'd never once questioned his ability to get behind the wheel today. "Leaving?" Henry called out, at Lassiter's back.

Lassiter stopped, halfway to his car. He kicked himself, and turned. He had no good explanation for himself. "No," he called back. He trekked back up the driveway, vaguely noting that Henry had no bottles of beer in his hands, that his fists were clenched. "Spencer still not answering?"

"What do you think?" Henry snapped.

Lassiter let it hit him without any backlash, but he was curious. "What are you going to do about it?" he inquired. He'd hoped to keep it neutral, but he knew Henry heard the challenge in his tone.

Henry glared at Lassiter, suddenly wondering if the detective was taunting him. It made no sense, but then again, Lassiter lacked tactfulness; he'd expect help even after offending a person into a state of speechless rage. He left the steps and went down the driveway, stopping a few feet away from Lassiter. This was almost . . . the version of just a few minutes prior. They could almost go back. Henry was almost tempted to ask Lassiter again why he'd come here, and what could possibly be so urgent that would bring the _great_ SBPD Head Detective groveling.

But Shawn. Shawn hadn't sounded afraid—not when Henry could actually hear his voice. This should be remotely reassuring, but Henry wasn't reassured at all.

Detective Lassiter brought him back to the present, barking his name. Henry raised his eyebrows, crossed his fists into the crooks of his elbows. "Go over the call with me," Carlton said. "Why do you think Spencer said 'poachers', and where do you think he's calling from?"

_What the hell is he up to?_ Henry wondered, suspicious.

Carlton stamped a foot at Henry's silence. "Come on, what's it going to hurt?"

Henry barred his teeth. _Fine. _Henry closed his eyes, focusing on the sounds he'd heard outside of the static. "There was rustling," he said finally. His heart shot into his throat; he realized he recognized those sounds. Pushing away oversized green leaves, ducking branches, footsteps muffled in the taller grasses but crackling over dried up undergrowth. One of his hands strayed to his mouth.

"What kind?" Lassiter pressed.

"Cell service was bad, or nearly lacking wherever he was," Henry continued. "And he said . . . he said 'ah zud' or some nonsense when I asked him where he was." He breathed, repeating it softly a few times. "Ah zud. Ah zudd. Ah zuds." He sighed heavily. "I think he might have been saying . . . 'The woods'."

Carlton barely stifled a groan. He coughed slightly to cover when did come out. Last time they'd been running around the woods, Spencer had been shot and abducted, and had managed to get out of the trunk he'd been locked in. Spencer left them the smallest tells—breadcrumbs in different shapes: a broken taillight, bent branches, a piece of flannel shirt knotted to a tree. _This way, this way. Keep up._

Spencer, out in the woods alone—no Guster, no backup, on the trail of poachers. No breadcrumbs, no official police involvement, nothing to go on one hundred percent. Even if it wasn't true, it made Lassiter angry. _The goddamn saboteur. _Not just a phone call that distracted Henry but a _whole nightmarish scenario_. If Lassiter considered its barest bones then Henry must have fleshed the whole thing out. Worst of all, Lassiter had already urged Henry to take it seriously, to be a man of action in spite of not knowing where the action was.

"The woods" didn't much narrow it down; but as he silently traced the different paths of where Spencer might be, Carlton's stomach twisted. He wondered if he might know more than he should—and more than he should tell Henry. Eventually, he sighed. If he really wanted help, he guessed he'd have to pay an even higher cost than originally estimated. Grumbling, he set off for his car, leaving Henry to his thoughts.


	3. Chapter 3: The Point Of Taking You On?

Author's Note: Thanks for reading and thanks for the comments so far. I really love hearing your thoughts. :)

Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

This chapter contains references to Season Four's "The Head, The Tail, The Whole Damn Episode!"

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**Chapter Three: Tell Me What's The Point Of Taking You On?**

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It took Henry a few seconds to notice Lassiter was no longer standing just in front of him. Instead, when he looked for the detective, he saw the man's back. Lassiter was gliding on his long legs to his Crown Vic, fluidly opening the driver's side and slipping in. At first Henry couldn't figure out what he was doing, and was peeved that Lassiter was trying to cut out. _Chicken,_ he thought, _unworthy. _Then Lassiter retrieved something—it was a file, a plain manilla with a simple label on the tab. Henry's long distance vision wasn't as good as Shawn's (anymore) so he couldn't see what was typed onto the tab, not from here. But Lassiter was coming back, looking solemn and disgruntled.

Henry jumped to conclusions, starting in before Lassiter was even close. There would be no going back to that first moment—Lassiter deathly pale with a loss of words, almost humble, begging him for something. No. Henry was certain, now, that Lassiter had been holding back something important about Shawn—his first impressions at Lassiter's arrival had been wrong. Henry cursed himself.

His mind raced, playing over the garbled conversation. He tried to fill in the gaps, a mistake; each time made it worse, worse. It was easy enough to say aloud that Shawn was just fine somewhere out there, but under the surface Henry knew there were cracks. He knew Shawn—Shawn ran blindly, recklessly, with no plans, no weapons, no backup; if he was _calling_, then— a knot of dread tightened just under Henry's Adam's apple.

Lassiter, in spite of his momentarily blurred vision—a symptom he attributed to the summer's usual temperatures—found the few spare sentences quickly. There was no reason he should find a connection without any evidence from either side, but if Spencer was involved somehow, this whole thing could be more than just an unlikely coincidence.

He'd taken the overheard conversation with as much salt as the elder Spencer had, but with much less emotion. Still, he hadn't been settled by what he heard. He imagined Guster fielded calls like this all time (if he was not already present for the shenanigans); certainly, Lassiter and/or O'Hara had also been on the receiving end of Spencer's (somewhat late) calls for backup—but this time, Spencer called _Henry_. Guster was out of the picture this time; why hadn't Spencer called the SBPD first then?

Lassiter considered putting the file back in his car; the connection was seeming less and less likely. Still, he wondered if he shouldn't ask Henry's opinion—whoa. The realization made Lassiter stop dead; was there a chance he _could_ be sick? Was he getting feverish, delirious even? What was he thinking, _really_, wanting to get Henry in on this probable can of worms? He felt the color leaving his skin.

No. No, he thought after a few seconds, shaking his head to himself. He was doing this to get Henry on his side, so Henry would be all the more persuaded to help him. Carlton breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn't losing his touch, or going soft, or being "nice". And most important of all, he wasn't _sick_.

Henry's biting tone snapped him out of his musings; Lassiter had been mid-breath, the how-to's of executing this information to the elder Spencer half formed on his tongue. After all, what the case file wanted of some qualified detective could have nothing at all to do with whatever the younger Spencer had entangled himself with, but Lassiter guessed it was better to be safe than sorry (and humiliated in public) when it came to any business with the Spencers.

"You knew about this?" Henry accused. Again, Lassiter stopped dead. He clutched the file tightly and fought the shocked emotions that were trying to take control of his face. Trouble was, he hadn't been prepared for this. Henry flung a hand sharply towards him, gesturing angrily at the file. "It's all down in there, isn't it? And you knew! You knew and for some blasted reason, you allowed my son to get involved! And now you're here, begging for my help on it to cover your ass!"

Lassiter knew he'd lost the battle against his emotions; he'd felt his whole face contort, fade to white, even whiter than it had been before. He even wondered if the brightness of his eyes had gone down a few shades. For what felt like an eternity, Lassiter couldn't form a retort because he was too stunned. Finally, he sputtered, "Knew about this? I just got this case file this morning." Lassiter worked his jaw, forcing himself to close his mouth. He realized, after he spoke, that he'd gone slack jawed, and figured his eyes and mouth were likely three matching O's of shock. Maybe he _was_ losing his touch; maybe he should have taken the Chief's advice for once, gone home, gone to bed, pulled the covers up over his head.

Henry wasn't about to let it go. "Are you saying I'm wrong here, _Detective_? Are you saying that my son is not out there, doing your job for you?"

Lassiter took a step back, in spite of not being in range of Henry's fists. What was it about being in the mere presence of the Spencers that completely soured everything for him? And how did things always take turns for the worse so quickly? For a few seconds, Henry blurred, his voice buzzing like an insect around Lassiter's skull. Lassiter blinked fiercely, and heard himself growl, "You better stop now, Spencer, before you say something you really regret."

Henry's mouth twitched into angry smile. "So it's true."

Lassiter scowled, ignoring the niggling sense of betrayal that went to his veins. "Is that what you actually believe? That, if I _knew_ your son was going to _purposely_ put himself in danger, I wouldn't do a thing to stop him? That I need him to 'do my job for me'?" He ignored also the tickle in his throat that forced his voice to crack, choosing to focus only on his own anger. "As if my solve rate as Head Detective of the SBPD prior to your son's intrusion was nil?" He paused only a moment, waiting to see Henry gather up breath. "I would _never_ ask for your help on any case, would _never_ need your help on any case—"

"Oh yeah? What about when Shawn got shot?" Henry cut in. "You didn't give a damn if we found Shawn or not," he spat. "If _I_ hadn't been there, doing your job for you—you see a pattern forming here?—piecing together all the clues—you would have missed everything. Shawn might have died because of your carelessness."

Lassiter clenched his fists, effectively squishing the file. Taking the bait would be very bad. He bit his lips hard to keep himself from speaking, but from the way Henry was glaring at him, _daring_ him—he lost his control. "Maybe if your son realized he was just a civilian and not a cop—and stopped refusing _proper police procedure_—he wouldn't end up in life threatening danger every five minutes."

The words stung Henry, stunned him; he could recognize the insult was directed at him just as much as at Shawn—but at the same time, it was incredibly hard to deny that Lassiter wasn't partially right—at least, Henry amended to himself, when it came to his son's methods.

"But you've needed Shawn's help on a shit load of cases," Henry continued. "Cases that would have otherwise have never been solved—or would had sloppy, rookie mistake ends to them. How many innocent citizens you think you would have locked up then, how many killers would still be running free? Face it, he's better at your job then you are!"

"You think if you keep saying that it's going make you feel better that your son will never be a cop?" Lassiter yelled. His throat burned, but he felt frozen on the outside. The past. Henry was now talking about the past. What the hell had he come here for, to "emote" about his own past . . . Lassiter felt like the biggest fool.

Silence took them for a handful of seconds; they stared each other down as if ready to charge. May the best man . . . tear the other's head off.

Lassiter gritted his teeth. Inside his head a frustrated voice scolded him—he couldn't be more stubborn than Henry Spencer at a time like this. What if there was still a faint chance that the overbearing jerk could help him? He _couldn't_ blow this. Lassiter cleared his throat.

Henry worked hard to put a lid on his anger, in spite of the "proof" before him of Lassiter's weakness and cowardice. The case file itself was physical "evidence", but Henry felt further vindicated by the detective's body language—the feigned shock at being "caught in a lie", the way his head drooped as if admitting his guilt. Still, he went over Lassiter's words in the brief silence. It seemed genuine enough, what the detective had said; Henry was having a hard time poking holes in why—or when—Lassiter let Shawn galavant off into the line of fire _when he had known about it beforehand_. He also knew he'd taken a cheap shot at the detective; it all hot air. Some kind of weight dropped into the pit of his stomach; was it possible he'd jumped to a false conclusion now? Was it possible he was just making things up to suit his needs, just to have someone to blame? He ran a hand over his eyes, temporarily shielding part of his face from the sun—and prying eyes. Lassiter started speaking in a monotone that might have faintly borne traces of hurt feelings or humbleness, but Henry couldn't be sure of either.

"I have absolutely no reason to lie to you, Spencer," Lassiter was saying, his voice low. "I found out, same as you, about whatever holy hell your son has stepped in now. I may not like your son as much as you do, and what I wouldn't give to see him get his comeuppance one day—but, how dare you—" Lassiter broke off for a couple of seconds to regain composure. "Thing was, he said 'poachers' and 'the woods' and I considered they _might_ have a connection to the _case I just received this morning_." He grimaced. "I thought we could—"

"So why did you specifically come to me first?" Henry interrupted. He'd wrung the anger out of his words, for now.

Lassiter sighed. "I didn't, I—" He wasn't about to tell Henry Vick had kicked him out the station. He wondered how much hot water he'd be in with Vick if he contacted the DFG; she hadn't said a thing about him being forbidden from working on cases—just that he couldn't do it _at work_. "I had a court appearance for another case but it was postponed till tomorrow. I came to you not for this new case but for a . . . a personal matter." He swallowed; his own anger still burned his throat like good whiskey; or perhaps that burning was for another reason.

Henry looked skeptical. Lassiter had left it at that; again, it could be genuine but wasn't it one hell of a coincidence? He considered giving Vick a call, but he guessed how that would look; she would only scold him with wasting her time if he had to tell her about Shawn. She'd probably tell him exactly what Lassiter had just told him—the case was brand new, and that it was highly unlikely that there was a connection between Shawn's shenanigans and actual police work. (Unless Shawn had been asked to be a consultant—which, Henry guessed, had not formally happened for this case.) He was starting to feel sick to his stomach.

Silence between them again. Lassiter's mind had begun to whir with the directions he could go in with this new case. When he'd first received it, he hadn't wanted it at all but now it might be his lifeline. The sooner he could get going with it, the less time he'd have to think about yet another failed step in his feeble plan of recovery. He hated that he had begun to draw up the mental blueprints of just how and why the younger Spencer could be involved—but it was _unconscionable_ that Spencer had gotten the drop on him for yet another case, was already eye deep in shit before the words of what was wrong and what needed specific police attention had even been typed up, let alone passed through Vick and on to him. Lassiter refused to admit that Spencer had "psychic" abilities, but figuring out how he did all that he did was truly mind numbing. More likely, Spencer had inside information—some cop had gone dirty. Why was it _today_ that the younger Spencer had deliberately . . .

No. No. Lassiter tried to turn his thoughts around; if he betted on this assumption then he was sort of allowing Spencer his ridiculous "psychic" behavior; besides this, now that he did know that Spencer might need help, he'd have to save his anger and paranoia for later. He didn't say it to Henry, but it was more often that naught that Shawn was the one who needed other people's help. The consultant was excellent at getting himself into the line of fire, but shitty at getting himself out. Sometimes, Lassiter relented, Spencer could talk himself halfway out—spare his life and Guster's until proper backup was in sight, but it was always too close. But not that time he got himself shot; Lassiter fought a bout of rage thinking about it. It was a wild notion that it hadn't happened more often; Spencer must have charmed a few dozen people out of their nine lives.

It never paid off to run headlong into any situation with absolutely no detailed plan; Lassiter frowned bitterly. But here, he'd had a plan, had good intentions, all of which had backfired on him. The one time he'd tried it Spencer's way he'd been publicly shamed for weeks, his sanity had been in question, O'Hara had threatened to shoot him in the face a couple of times, and Spencer and Guster had ended up with the glory anyway.

But here . . . wasn't he considering doing it again? Sweat trickled down the back of his neck. Henry could deal with results—he'd be grateful enough that his idiot son was back in sight for even a few minutes that he'd probably indulge Lassiter's questions for a couple of minutes. Yeah. Sure. For a couple of seconds Lassiter struggled to maintain his balance; had he been failing to breathe? Was his head about to explode?

He felt the file tugged out of his grasp. A few seconds later, Henry gasped and muttered, "Los Padres?" At over 200 miles, 1.75 million acres, it was too much ground to cover. His heart sank. The case file had narrowed it down a bit to the Los Prietos area, which was the Santa Barbara Ranger District, but there was no telling if Shawn was in range. Or if these were even the right woods.


	4. Chapter 4: Go On, Hurt Me

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: I want to express my thanks for all the support and encouragement I've received for this story—it all means a great deal to me, always, and especially now. Thank you. I apologize for the length of time between updates, as well as falling behind on author responses; I just want to let you all know—it bears repeating—that your comments are so helpful and wonderful and gleaming, especially during a very rough, difficult patch of life. I am working to get caught up with everything. Thank you thank you thank you thank many times over.

As always, reviews, feedback, and constructive criticism are welcomed and appreciated.

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**Chapter Four: Hurt Me, When You See Me Crawling On The Floor **

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Henry read everything a few times; lifting the pages, putting them back. He wasn't quite sure when it hit him how little was on page, or how thin the file was. And the date was type set for today.

Absently, he wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand as if he were swatting at mosquitos. His own words, directed at Lassiter, echoed mercilessly in his skull. How . . . uncalled for, how reckless. Wasn't he just . . . just as bad as his son, sometimes not interpreting the signals of the environs or people correctly—and leaping furious distances without first deciding on a landing?

It was . . . somewhat unusual, Henry thought, that Lassiter had held back, that he had not stormed off. Certainly, the Head Detective was highly likely to have his own hangups about their halfhearted partnership during the early morning hours, months ago, of Shawn's shooting and kidnapping. Henry was unwilling to believe that Lassiter would just let it go; they were similar, he recognized on some level, when it came to emotion, how and when to express it. The very easiest ones were negative; because of the nature of the job, it was less likely to turn heads if anger, irritation, sarcasm, frustration, or myriad others appeared in an outburst in the hallway, or while questioning a suspect, or when hitting a dead end.

Joy—not unheard of, especially when making a collar or getting a confession to stick—wasn't unwelcome, but it was rare enough that if a cop appeared "too happy", heads would turn.

Juliet O'Hara, Henry reasoned, might be the exception to this rule. Or perhaps that 6'6, over-sized, giant of a rookie that Shawn and Gus seemed to be friendly with at crime scenes.

On the other hand, cops who moped without anger or determination to back it up were considered psychologically dangerous—a danger to themselves and others, unofficially of course. A cop who moped suggested, to his peers, that emotion had him by the balls—and if he was not in control of himself, how could he be trusted to hold a gun, interview a suspect, put in all that was needed on a shift that might last days, depending?

It was an unspoken rule, among their types, that no emotion running too deeply should make public appearances on one's face. These types of emotion could not be disguised by anything else—not even sadness, or fury. Not that masks weren't tried, if it was public, and not private, when they appeared. Often, these emotions were based in fear, apprehension, shock, or horror, though many times they came from the deep-seated place of life's daily battles wearing a person down. Henry, conditioned to recognize these types, became wary of words from experienced cops who were more book than street smart.

But with himself, and begrudgingly, Lassiter, Henry knew that emotion was part of the drive—in all of its forms it helped fuel and shape the way he did his job. Both he, and Lassiter, would claim to anyone in earshot that neither bought into that crap, that they were solid men who could run on nothing for days, who wanted nothing more than to get justice for all those wronged. Not that it wasn't mostly true, but Henry had always wanted more.

He'd wanted a family. A marriage, a mortgage, a white picket fence, an ocean view, a child, or two.

In the present, Henry took a step back. He closed the file and forced himself to look at Lassiter, unsurprised to find the detective staring at him. There was a trace of hostility in Lassiter's eyes, but his jaw was slack. For a moment, Henry saw him sway, but it was so minute that Henry couldn't be certain it was real.

Lassiter was fighting snide comments, biting his tongue and the inside of his cheek. _Did__ you__ learn __exactly __what __you __needed, __Spencer? __Gonna __rush__ right __out__ there__ and__ drag__ your__ son __back __by__ the__ ear? _Henry had studied the file for much too long, as if a few new pages had been added to it on Lassiter's drive over; impossible, seeing as how he had taken the file from the station. What he truly couldn't figure out was why he'd gotten the file out to begin with. Lassiter recalled his own reasonings for doing so, but the logic was lacking when it came to consequence. Still, Lassiter had not been expecting this sort of ambush. His last resort might just be a no resort, he thought, for the first time, with dread. Spencer was utterly pissed at him for some dangerous act his son and gone and done without Lassiter's knowledge—tracing the makings of today's disaster back to another colossal mistake originally made by the younger Spencer. Wasn't that a kick in the teeth?

Lassiter wished he could leave. He wanted to back away slowly, his hand on his holster, get into his car and just get the hell away. But now he knew too much. And still had to ask his piece, regardless of the outcome.

He kept his mouth shut, waiting for Henry to make the first move.

The retired detective finally looked him in the eye. "This isn't much to go on," he said quietly, "if it's _anything_ to go on."

Lassiter's mouth twisted. Without thinking, he snatched the folder from Henry. He would have headed for his car if not for the ringing in his ears; Henry's lips were moving again, but Lassiter wasn't certain he'd actually heard what was said.

"I don't—blame you. That's not—"

"Don't blame me?" Lassiter repeated, watching Henry's brow furrow. "Does that mean right now or then?"

Henry ran a hand across his head. He still had raw anger about their brief partnership—which he thought he'd keep well buried—but accusing the Head Detective of the SBPD of not taking his job seriously—of not going the distance to locate a particular missing consultant he didn't like so much—it was just petty. He didn't know why he'd said it, it had just popped out of his mouth unbidden. But now that it was said, he couldn't take it back. He tried to think of something to say as a way of apology, but now he realized he'd faltered miserably.

"Goddammit," Henry hissed. "You're a piece of work."

"This is about me?" Lassiter shot back, his voice thin.

"Apparently it is," Henry retorted, "but I don't really know why."

At this, Lassiter clamped his mouth shut. He understood immediately that Henry was referring to his being in the driveway at the moment, unable to so far explain why. Henry was, graciously, giving him a few more seconds.

"Look, I need you to leave now," Henry said firmly after staring at Lassiter's exceeding pale face. "I don't want anyone hanging around on my property while I'm not home."

"Where the hell are you going?" Lassiter demanded, angry that he was getting a brush off.

"What the hell does it matter to you?" Henry snapped.

"It matters because I needed—" Lassiter broke off, swallowing the word "you" in an over-sized gulp. What was he saying? _Get__ a __grip!_ he chided himself with horror.

Henry watched a private fear flash over Lassiter's face in a public place; it stayed in his eyes for several seconds as he tried to blink it away. _He__ must __be __so __goddamn__ desperate,_ Henry thought wryly, trying not to let the smugness show too much. He had a sudden, almost cruel urge to suggest the detective take another fishing trip with him. He imagined it would be fun to watch Lassiter squirm as he forced himself to say yes.

Still, Lassiter held his ground, even as Henry stared darkly back. "I came here because—"

"Save it," Henry said. "I really don't care." He turned back towards his house, trying to ignore the flicker of curiosity newly ignited. Maybe that's why he stopped when he heard what sounded like a plea from the detective.

"Henry, wait."

Henry turned around, squinting.

"You—have a minute? I mean, it . . . it'll take more than a minute, but—" Carlton couldn't help being selfish; besides, he had to know if Henry was serious.

"Carlton," Henry sighed. "Before Shawn called, I did." He turned around, tossing over his shoulder as he moved on the porch, "Besides, as you said it yourself, what you need to talk about is going to take much more than a minute."

"You're planning to do something about it, aren't you?" Lassiter said loudly, almost incredulous his earlier thoughts were on the mark. When Henry continued to move towards his house, he added, "About Shawn." He noticed a tic in Henry's shoulder, then another in his neck. "What the hell are you going to do? Drive to Los Padres and wander around and hope you get lucky?"

"You're unbelievable!" Henry snarled. He grabbed the screen door and slammed it testily as he went inside. He'd heard Lassiter shout the same thing back to him as he went inside, and couldn't help but wonder if the detective wasn't somehow correct. That's exactly what he was "planning"—a mission of madness; acts more familiar to his son than himself.

Mechanically, Henry went through the house, stuffing items into an old hiking backpack: a change of clothes, a thermal blanket, first aid supplies, various tools and necessities, a flashlight with extra batteries, bug spray, maps, a handful energy bars and a couple bottles each of vitamin and regular water. He knew what to get, knew where to go to immediately put his hands on it, and which zippered pocket to store it all in. He grabbed a baseball cap he often wore when going fishing, sticking it backwards over his head so he could see what he was doing. He made a note to turn it forward before leaving; there was little doubt what would be waiting for him when he went back outside. Over and over, he wondered just what the hell he was doing, but he continued to pack. When he was finished, he climbed the stairs to change, putting on jeans and a clean t-shirt. He pulled a long-sleeved flannel around his shoulders, leaving the buttons undone, anticipating both the heat and the long branches.

When he was done, he went back downstairs and dropped unexpectedly into a chair at his kitchen table. His stomach growled. Right, Henry recalled. He'd been planning before Lassiter's arrival to take a break and eat lunch. Was it wrong to eat something now, with Shawn somewhere out there, hanging on a line, and that lanky pest hovering just outside his door?

Quickly, Henry made himself a sandwich and sank down again to eat. He stayed in his seat as the screen door opened and Lassiter's footsteps entered, approaching the kitchen without invitation. Lassiter looked annoyed at having to wait, but he also looked sheepish, and Henry wondered again _why_ he had waited. Henry swallowed the last of his sandwich with a swing of vitamin water, and heard Lassiter continue a conversation from nearly a half an hour ago.

"So, you're saying you have a minute . . . if I were to . . . accompany you?" Lassiter pressed, stopping awkwardly in front of the kitchen table.

"I don't need you to come," Henry grumbled, not bothering to scold his guest that he wasn't quite welcome in his house. "Just because I'm retired—"

"You're still a civilian," Lassiter countered. He saw Henry's back stiffen.

"You're an ass," Henry snapped. _"__Detective.__"_

Lassiter shrugged, actually feeling the corners of his lips tug upwards. He was winning this argument—he was winning it, one way or another.

He didn't bother to deny it; it wasn't as if Henry Spencer was the first person ever to refer to him in derogatory terminology, nor would he be the last. What he wasn't looking forward to was teaching Spencer the updated version of "how the SBPD now does police work", the version which his son also refused to consider, let alone adhere to.

Henry got up, not bothering to tell Lassiter to stop following him. He retrieved his backpack and went over his mental checklist. "You're still going to go?" Lassiter asked.

Exasperated, Henry didn't answer, because Lassiter was acting as a voice of reason—for whatever ulterior reason of his own. Henry realized suddenly he held some of the high cards; Carlton had dragged his heels but had made the decision of his own free will to come here and _lower_ himself to ask Henry for a favor.

"Are you going to call it in?" Henry asked tonelessly.

Lassiter shook his head, scowling. "There might be nothing out there."

Though neither of them pursued it aloud, both were thinking, one smugly and one with chagrined irritation, the implications of what it would cause—the aftershocks—if Shawn was not in any danger and Henry forced Lassiter to make a big deal of it.

Of course, all the blame would go to the Head Detective—and once again, the Spencers would have shamed and humiliated him in public.

But worse . . . if Shawn was _actually_ in danger . . .

Henry disguised a stretch as a shrug; there were already stiff kinks in his neck. Begrudgingly, he admitted silently that if Lassiter actually believed (on blind faith or hard evidence, whichever overrode procedure) with gut instincts that Shawn was tangled up with criminals, he would not hesitate to put his own ass on the line or to look the fool if it turned out all wrong.

On the other hand, Henry considered it to be rash to enter not only the woods but a virtually unknown situation when it came to how much danger Shawn might be in entirely alone. Carlton had offered, and it might be foolish to say no just because the two didn't see eye to eye.

Henry felt a dull throbbing in his ribs that refused to diminish; he attributed it partially to concern for his son and partially his uncertainty for revealing to Lassiter that Shawn might be in trouble. He knew Lassiter was a cop—even a _good_ cop—that stated, he knew Lassiter wasn't going to just let this knowledge go just because his semi-professional working relationship with Shawn was rocky. Lassiter was just as stubborn as he was; they could be deadlocked at anything, but Lassiter wasn't about to let him—just a _civilian_—get into a potentially lethal situation all alone. Henry sighed, hiding his sneer. _Just __a __civilian, __my __ass._

Setting the backpack down again, Henry noticed that Lassiter had changed his shoes; it was bewildering to find out the uptight detective actually owned a pair of well-worn sneakers. "What's with your shoes?"

Aghast, Lassiter backed out of the house. It was all slipping away, and he couldn't let that happen. "Forget it. I'm wasting my breath on you." He let himself off the porch, heading for his car. He had some supplies he could get out; he had nowhere to be, no one who wanted him around for at least 24 hours. Curious, Henry followed the detective outside.

"Where are you going?" Henry croaked out, watching Lassiter open his trunk, retrieve a first aid kit, some clips. He continued to rifle around inside.

"I'm doing my job," Lassiter snapped.

"No one asked you to," Henry retorted.

Lassiter leaned around the lid and gave Henry a dangerous look, a basic "F— off", Henry guessed, but didn't stop what he was doing. Henry could only watch him, though he couldn't see everything Lassiter was reaching for and picking up. Henry watched somewhat familiar objects drop into a drawstring bag. Finally, Lassiter straightened abruptly and seemed, for a moment, to waver in the heat.

Lassiter made a fist. The notion of being called a bad cop made him lightheaded. He stumbled back a step, tossing his head to the bright blue sky. It was always mocking him. "You think you're a better cop," his voice scratched out. There was intent to continue that sentence, but Lassiter had to stop, and slammed the trunk to stabilize a new wave of anger stretching out to the tips of his fingers.

Lassiter slung the drawstring bag to his back; Henry didn't have to guess the rest of the contents that went inside. He also took it to assume he was driving, and should get his backpack, get the good map of Los Padres handy. It wasn't till he was walking through the door did Henry wonder why Lassiter didn't press to drive. It couldn't be anger that was keeping him from getting behind the wheel; a little disgruntled spat between them wasn't stopping him from going in the first place.

Henry swallowed. He wasn't completely certain how they'd gotten to fighting, whose fault it was. Both of them were stubborn as hell and cops right down to their nerve endings, and neither of them were _new_ at this. When something was in your blood, and you had unnecessary criticism flying at you like a bullet—Henry closed his eyes. _"__You __think __you__'__re__ a __better__ cop.__" _He really hadn't meant to . . . take a swing, not that low, and he wasn't sure he believed _everything_ he'd raged on aloud.


	5. Chapter 5: Dangerous Neighborhoods

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

This chapter has minor references to Season Two's "Dis-Lodged" and Season Three's "Tuesday the 17th".

Author's Note: I know, I know, it's been a while. Thanks to everyone for reading and thank you especially to those leaving comments and feedback, love to hear from you. :) Hope you enjoy this chapter!

Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated.

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**Chapter Five: My Heart Has Some Dangerous Neighborhoods**

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What could have been several minutes passed between them in utter silence. There was no acknowledgment, but no denial either.

It didn't matter to him that Henry hadn't said yes to being accompanied; it was out of Henry's hands, just for the simple fact that Henry hadn't said no. Lassiter fought hard not to blink, angling his face away from Henry instead, because he found himself inside another bout of dizziness. The sunlight flickered and did some flips, and as his eyes watered, he absently reached for the hood of the truck.

_Probable cause,_ he could explain to Vick, Henry imagined, if there came a time to face her. He already guessed that this was a handy excuse, always ready on his tongue when Karen demanded explanation for Lassiter's overzealous firearm discharging. Lassiter could still, Henry figured, try to place blame on Shawn, but in the end, he'd take whatever was dished out.

Henry squinted through the bright sunlight at Lassiter, ignoring the glare from the polished chrome. Lassiter was not looking at him. _He's willing to go out to almost the middle of nowhere, having little to go on,_ Henry told himself. He cleared his throat. "Fair enough," he finally replied. Lassiter nodded, but it was slight and towards the house.

Lassiter took Henry's words to be as much of an invitation as he would ever get."We should try to narrow this down," he said, "before we get there, assuming we're going towards the right destination."

Henry almost snapped, ready to be argumentative before he understood what Lassiter was saying. It might just be a coincidence that Lassiter had gotten a case about Los Padres; it was too easy to assume that Shawn would be in the same place. But at least they had a map, they had a general area to start in, references to check. A few names were listed, a few trails and a few Ranger Station numbers. Otherwise, considering this whole business would be like searching for the needle in the haystack; Shawn could be in _any_ wooded area in or near or hundreds of miles away from Santa Barbara. Henry breathed out in a huff. "It's all we've got."

Lassiter huffed as well. "But since we lack details, and can't reach either Guster or your son to fill in blanks, we should focus on the most likely. Unfortunately, I do not know if we've got is absolutely squat or if what's in this file—" Unexpectedly, Lassiter broke off, rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand. He wasn't positive, for a few seconds, if it was that he was swaying or if there was an earthquake. He ignored an urge to sit or lie down, and continued, "What's in the file will give us what we want."

"Doubtful," Henry muttered. "With no investigation begun—"

Carlton sighed loudly, snapped his whole body in Henry's direction. He didn't have to speak.

Henry threw up his hands. "I'm just being realistic!"

Carlton's mouth twitched, but again he said nothing. Instead, he pulled the passenger side door open and slid in. He had to ignore two things—the heavy sideways glance he felt coming from the elder Spencer, who still stood outside the cab, and yet another blurring of the space directly in front of him. He fumbled his way for something solid, getting his fingers laced around the seatbelt and yanking it across his chest.

He recognized, distantly, that he hadn't felt this bad earlier, or he might have opted to walk to work, which was better than letting O'Hara drive his car in (he guessed she'd do it if he asked, but his stomach twisted just processing the request—and if it came to _that_). In fact, he could _almost_ see her getting him to take a sick day—one sick day out of his entire career—breaking his flawless streak. She had a way about her, he grumbled to himself. It was lucky for him that he'd decided to walk himself through hell rather than let her know too much.

After a more than a few seconds staring curiously at Lassiter, Henry opened the driver's side door, leaned in and tossed his backpack into the compact space behind the two front seats. He then heaved himself in, closed the door with a slam and started the car.

Like that night, when Henry knew next to nothing about Shawn's disappearance, he felt the vagueness of helplessness undercut only by a driving fear that he do something about it. If not for Gus's alert, he would have known nothing at all, unless Chief Vick decided it fit to notify him what may have been several hours too late.

"_What is he doing here?" Lassiter's voice demanded heatedly._

"_It's his father," Gus explained incredulously, gesturing to Henry. "I thought he'd want to know."_

"_There's no place for family in this investigation."_

Henry scowled at the memory of what he'd overheard, arriving at the junkyard amid a blur of flashing red and blue. It was impossible to hear a detective just following procedure and doing his job—turning the family away so as to ensure there would be less interference—_because it was his son_.

All he still heard was Lassiter's disgruntled tones, his unfeeling responses. He had not been looking at Shawn as a missing friend or fellow officer; Shawn had become just any other missing person. But then again, taking that tact meant that Lassiter was not facing the search with a huge conflict of interest. He could prove he could be objective and still do what he needed to locate Shawn. As Henry considered this, Lassiter broke him out of the past.

"What about the Psych office," Lassiter threw out, staring out the windshield, "to try narrowing things down?" He was annoyed that Henry would rather sit behind the wheel than actually drive the truck.

Henry breathed a secret sigh of relief. He hadn't wanted to be the one to suggest this first; Lassiter was already skeptical—and suspicious—enough about Shawn's "abilities". For whatever (ungodly) reason, Henry noted that Lassiter often to chose to accept Shawn's screwed up methods because Shawn more often than not got results. "Maybe if your son and Guster took a private case regarding poaching in Los Padres, they could have notes—leads—something to go on, a better focus than we have now."

Henry nodded. "Good thinking." He was more relieved that Lassiter didn't pursue the obvious sarcasm of those words; if Shawn was really psychic, why would he take notes? Wouldn't the ghosts tell him whatever he needed to know whenever he needed to know it? Actually, Henry found himself biting his tongue instead. It was difficult, he found, not to also throw this in Lassiter's face; he knew, smugly, that Lassiter would resist fighting back.

Why this was was a mystery; Henry moved his tongue around his mouth as if this would help him guess the underlying cause of Lassiter's odd mood. He was soon lost again to his thoughts.

It wasn't until father and son were no longer estranged that Shawn decided to get into the business of private detecting—with a mystical twist, leaving the handful of years in between and before that attributed to a boy's (mostly) useful mischief. Especially a boy as precocious, curious and adventurous (without a clue) as Shawn. Still, the typical paternal anxiety of being father to such a boy hadn't left Henry in the time they were apart—not even through the fury and missteps which had separated them in the first place. In fact, this worry had only expanded with time—even more so since Shawn had taken on the serious job of a detective but kept the career motivations of a twelve to fifteen-year-old mowing lawns for spending cash.

Henry gritted his teeth. There were more times than he wanted to count that his son had waltzed himself right in front of the barrel of a gun with a lopsided grin on his face. Even when he _did_ get shot—Henry tensed; his foot dropped harder on the accelerator. Even when Shawn did get shot for his troubles and his wit, he had seemingly learned nothing—not at all dialing up the caution or dialing back the joking. It was as if . . . as if he thought, in spite of everything, that he was bulletproof anyway.

"Spencer," Lassiter barked next to him, causing Henry to start. He'd almost forgotten about his curmudgeon of a passenger.

"What?" Henry demanded.

"You're speeding," he was informed gruffly.

"I am n—" Henry broke off as he flicked his eyes to the speedometer. He was doing over seventy. With a frustrated sigh, Henry removed his foot from the gas entirely, letting the truck coast for a few seconds. As the speed dropped, his blood pressure rose, he was sure of it. Still, he bit his tongue to keep himself from lashing out at the messenger, and stole a glance in Lassiter's direction.

The right side of the Head Detective's face was pressed against the closed window. Henry couldn't tell if this was supposed to be soothing, or if it was an attempt to stay as possibly far from him as Lassiter could in a truck cab this size. Henry couldn't be sure, but it looked, in this passing light, that Lassiter's skin was flushed, right next to his temples.

He shrugged to himself, then turned his attention back to the road—this stretch mostly empty for this time of day; it was in their favor too that it was a work day, and not, hopefully, a speed trap.

Henry found himself beyond curious as to why he was behind the wheel instead of the detective—and in his aging pickup, no less. Lassiter had offered no explanation; had not even insisted one way or the other, though Henry suspected that Lassiter might have pitched a fit if Henry suggested that _he_ drive Lassiter's Crown Vic. Henry wondered if he should be suspicious; in spite of Lassiter's usually excellent poker face when it came to interrogating suspects or witnesses, Henry guessed Lassiter had no idea that his face was often more expressive than intended. Maybe not when it came to physical pain; this would be obvious to Lassiter that he'd need to hide it, but that goddamn emotional stuff was much trickier. And, Henry would be loathe to admit, the Head Detective had fewer wrinkles than he did in which to try.

As Henry drove, Lassiter was unable to help himself from replaying some of the more spectacular fights he'd had with Victoria in the early stages prior to becoming legally separated. The shrieking from both of them was so loud in his head Lassiter was almost surprised Henry couldn't hear it. One of the arguments even involved a mid-fight chew out by his ex-father-in-law, when Victoria's crying fit had sounded lethal, as if he had been the one intending to maim with his spew of ugly words, not her. It was always a dangling threat—her father just a phone call away, and he'd never approved of Carlton. Carlton Lassiter wasn't good enough for his Tori, and he'd never be.

Perhaps . . . perhaps it was the combination of cold medicines he'd taken before heading to work this morning that was causing his head to swim and making the sounds in his head so clear, so vivid. Right there, she could be standing right there . . . and then, flash forward, his lips hummed with her parting kiss and she was pushing the door to Gerald's open, and she was gone.

Being honest—that cut-to-the-bone, stare-at-your-own-eyes-staring-you-down-in-the-mirror honest—was, even to Carlton Lassiter, daunting. It meant admitting, on the most organic level he was capable of acknowledging, that he had somehow been wrong. That the dissolution of the relationship was not—entirely—Victoria's fault. Or, to understand the most gut-wrenching, it meant that when he had seen her through true-love colored glasses, he had been blind to her most horrible qualities—and that he had, most likely, loved her harder and truer than she had loved back.

In the medicine induced haze, Carlton allowed himself to believe he could be cursed—that he was tainted by his upbringing, or by some insignificant event from his childhood that had stayed with him—and haunted him well into his youth.

This was, he realized, despite the haze, utterly ridiculous—if anything, he was normal and well-adjusted until he opened his heart to his ex-wife, thinking at the time, "This is it. This is what it feels like. This is right."

Putting it all into words—sure, he had gone to Henry with the intent to do just that, but some of the emotion was still raw—anguish, hot coals under his fingernails; rage so potent it could make him bleed from the nose; and something else so pure and blinding it could still his tongue in an instant, freeze him to the moment. It wasn't all hesitation, standing there in Henry's driveway, that made him pause. Some words had no shape—even through the humiliation of what he had resolved to do in talking it out with the elder Spencer, he couldn't find their shape. Humiliation was fleeting and something he was accustomed to handling rather well, considering, but if he just couldn't know . . . what he was supposed to say . . .

Lassiter blinked awake, the motion of moving truck reminding him he was still on a dual mission. Greenery blurred, indistinct, to his right, causing him to wonder how much time had passed. He felt a flash of shame that he'd actually closed his eyes with other people around—the elder Spencer being nearly worse to do so in front of than the younger Spencer. Lassiter tried not to make it obvious that he was checking his watch, but braced himself for the barb that was sure to come from Henry about his impromptu nap.

"We're here," Henry grunted, pulling into a space in front of the Psych office. He got out and patted his pockets for the spare key that Gus had had made for him some time ago. He kept it in the truck, but while Lassiter was spaced out, he had slipped it into a pocket. He was already unlocking the door before Lassiter was even outside, blinking at the beach nearby.

He was really doing this. There was a niggling in his throat that made him uneasy; if there was nothing to be found within, could there still be a way for Henry to help him sort this out?

And if there was something inside . . . Lassiter swallowed dryly. Not that he would ever admit it, especially to Henry, but he might not be up for _hiking_ on even such a lovely day.

# # #

The two of them left, Henry striking off ahead. This venture had nearly been a waste of time; though the notes written in coded chicken-scratch had convinced Henry that Shawn might be onto something.

On Gus's desk were a few printed pages about articles of the likelihood of poaching in the Santa Barbara area of Los Padres, as well as some names written hastily on a notepad. One had been circled, but it wasn't a name mentioned in Lassiter's case file. They had found the name Cornell, which did match the last name of one of the park rangers listed in the file. And there was a list of marked trails drawn onto a makeshift map; it looked like idle doodling Shawn may have done as he chatted on the phone. So it seemed, by some miracle, the general area in the file matched up with the area Shawn and Gus had been looking into.

The fact which most disgusted Henry was that there was much too little to take to the SBPD for an official investigation. Even if there wasn't the time for it, it still ground Henry the wrong way to have so few viable clues when walking into practically unknown territory. He was not his son.

He hoped Shawn had the real version of the map with the all the right trails marked—or had at the very least locked the images into his mind. From what Henry knew about the National Forest, it still held a vast primitiveness, and not just in its specified wildernesses. There was plenty of untamed forest where vehicles could not go—not even motorcycles—even where the experienced hikers and campers could get lost. Henry took a deep breath, telling himself that worry would do him no good.

Pausing at the truck, Henry turned towards his current "partner", wondering suddenly how much choice Gus had when it came to his son pulling the reins—because in spite of the bouts of hostility, Lassiter had come along with little resistance. Still, Gus was too often a willing pawn. Henry's curiosity was piquing; he actually wanted to hear Lassiter's mysterious reasoning.

"This is crazy, what we're about to do," Henry admitted suddenly.

Lassiter nodded curtly. He had been in the office too, had looked over the same material Henry had. But he'd already made his decision; his detective instincts were pushing him to see this to its end. And it was a sweet procrastination, because he obviously needed more time to find the words he had struggled with, if he was to ever get any relief.

"You still have a chance to turn back," Henry said, eyeing Lassiter.

_No, I don't,_ Lassiter thought. "Just drive," he grumbled.


	6. Chapter 6: It Depends On If

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Don't own Sudafed.

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone for reading and thank you especially to those leaving comments and feedback, love to hear from you. :) I know I owe many of you author responses, but I haven't forgotten about you! Thank you for your patience and support! Enjoy! :)

Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated.

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**Chapter Six:** **It Depends On If You're Trying To Get To The Promised Land, Or If You're Just Trying To Get By**

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# # #

Why they were keeping him here, Shawn didn't know. Why they were keeping him alive, he didn't know either. All he knew—or guesstimated, since it was getting too hard to buy into a stable reality—was that they'd given him something, its only main purpose being to keep his eyes closed and his consciousness dark.

Shawn blinked rapidly, willing his eyes to stay open, at least until he figured out the time of day, at least until he could focus on a detail he must have seen before that could alert him to his surroundings.

The edges he could discern were all fuzzy, and there was a dry cotton taste to the inside of his mouth.

He guesstimated that he didn't have long for being awake; he remembered specific pain against his neck, a jab of a point that bore into his flesh. The first time, he'd whined and pleaded, no, not a needle, he didn't like needles, needles fell under the category of pointy things.

# # #

Lassiter opened his eyes, sleep temporarily having erased his knowledge of the errand he was embarking on—and then he turned his head from the window.

Henry had turned on some news radio program, keeping focus on the drive. They were off town roads, well aways on the 101, if Lassiter wagered a guess. He moved his stiff arm and bent his neck to glare at his watch and realized with start that the small motion caused his vision to swim. In fact, the more he became aware of his own body the more of it he realized he could actually _feel_—the aches of his flu-addled muscles, the pressure in his sinuses and head and neck. His eyes and nose ran fluid against his will; gradually, he was aware of an uncomfortable hotness of his own skin, as if he stood motionless in a hot beat of sun. The possibly unwise cocktail of OTC cold and flu medicines he'd done in a few shots must be wearing off.

_Just as well,_ he thought, clearing his throat gruffly. He shifted his body in the seat, pressing his hands against his face. The medicine had made him feel sicker, but it was a desperation to face and make it through his day that forced him to take it all. Now, he could take the day like a man, on even ground.

Henry had not yet spoken a word, had chosen not to dig him with insulting nicknames or interrogate him on his passive state, or engage him on the progress of their journey. His watch, if he'd read it correctly, told Carlton he'd been out like a light for a little over an hour. They must be halfway there. Maybe closer if Henry was still speeding.

As Carlton readjusted his position in his seat, Henry spoke. "Why am I driving?"

Lassiter's lip curled as he shot a sidelong glance at Henry. "Excuse me?"

Henry took a handful of seconds to glare at his passenger. "I said—"

"Watch the road!" Lassiter snarled. His fingers reached for the archaic gadgets above Henry's ancient radio. "Your air conditioner's faulty."

Henry, though he found it difficult, resisted the urge to slap the detective's hands away or sputter out, "It is not! It's in top condition!" Reluctantly, he brought his eyes back to the road. He hadn't been imagining it earlier, Lassiter's face was flushed, his eyes watery as well. He found it suspicious to have the detective comment about air conditioning, but fought to keep silent. He considered that Lassiter would answer his first question, if he knew what was good for him—not for him, per se, but for appeasing Henry to be open to whatever it was that brought him here in the first place. Then again, this was Lassiter.

So Henry tried again. "Don't you like to be the driver? Why didn't we take your car?"

"I'm off duty!" Lassiter snapped. "Why is this so important to you?"

"What's your angle?" Henry continued, deciding he could be as evasive as Lassiter.

"I have no angle, Spencer," Lassiter replied tiredly. Rubbing his eyes again, he forced himself to ask if Henry had formulated a plan, questions he might want to ask—er, hijack away from Lassiter at embarrassing or key moments—the park rangers, anything that might put them on the right path to finding out what they were dealing with so they could find out if Shawn was in trouble because of it.

Though Henry must have certainly been thinking about it, Lassiter found him unwilling to share. He went for a weak spot, one that, as Henry had so dutifully pointed out to him earlier, or before all this, would be entirely lost on him. "Spencer, this is your kid we're going to look for—"

But Henry was not letting his line of questioning go, not just yet. "Missed your morning coffee? Your second cup? Your third?"

"Jesus," Lassiter growled, "will you stop?" He barely stifled a chill that ran up his back and fanned out down his arms, raising quick bumps. Without thinking, he patted his pockets, hoping to find one or two more spare pills—lozenges, aspirin, anything medicated that would keep his symptoms at bay a little longer. Forget taking this on even ground; Henry was giving him a migraine.

On the inside of his jacket, his fingers curled around a half used tray of foil sealed cold medicine. Covertly, he turned the tray over so he could read the tiny words on the pills from the covered safety of his jacket. Sudafed, the most warned against but strongest cold medicine on the market. Carlton realized, with a snap, that he had watched O'Hara pop a few of these some odd days ago—and that she must have slipped him some of her extras, thinking he might have use for them.

Goddamn her and god love her, she knew he much too well.

"I want an answer, _Detective_, or I'm pulling this car over."

Lassiter's mouth dropped in incredulity. He managed only "You're bluffing."

With a curt shake of his head, Henry guided the truck towards the breakdown lane.

"For the love of Mike—" Lassiter growled. He started to reach for Henry's arm, as if to keep him in the center lane at least, going towards some destination, but a harsh voice inside his head warned him to stop. He dropped his hand, but not before Henry sent him an angry glare. Before Henry could admonish him for nearly causing a pile up, Lassiter groaned the words out. "I want you goddamn help, Spencer. I need it, or else I wouldn't be asking." With effort, he was able to steer clear of insults which included how he much he was lowering himself/how much it was beneath to even ask/demand help and how normally seeking out a Spencer of any kind ranged on high on the insanity scale.

_Blame me all you want, Spencer,_ Lassiter thought darkly, forcing himself not to open that Pandora's Box again. _Keep blaming me about that night, but if I hadn't been there you would have been driving around in your truck with absolutely nothing to go on. _

Carlton didn't know the motives behind Henry's question, if even his so-called infractions of that night still put him behind the eight ball. But blame would keep them both angry, keep them dancing around the truth of why Lassiter was in the passenger seat.

Henry listened but was unconvinced of Lassiter's ploy to butter him up by allowing him to drive. Still, he remained in the center lane, considering what had just been said, choked out with reluctance and resentment—at with, no doubt, being faced with a problem so big it couldn't be dealt with on the shooting range. "So, then, this is a gift to me?"

It reached Lassiter low and humming, an obvious challenge. He shrugged noncommittally.

Hell would freeze over before Carlton told Henry the truth about why he was not at the wheel, which might have left Henry free to strategize or read code out a text message. Hell, admitting he needed help was easier than admitting how sick he was, so sick that even Vick had taken an interest in his health.

Perhaps this was a side effect to being targeted by a killer under her watch, that she was still doing what she could to keep him safe. Carlton rolled his eyes. Technically, she hadn't said a thing about him going off on his own to look for danger; no, he was only supposed to take the rest of the day off and not return for 24 hours. There was a chance he was not courting danger at all—he was merely getting a head start on the case file _she'd_ assigned him.

Yes, yes, this all made perfect sense, Carlton decided.

# # #

He remembered something minuscule upon once waking, a promise or plea he'd made when he'd stumbled upon them with their shotguns and assault rifles and tranquilizer guns, and for some reason they'd taken him at his word.

Perhaps because he had been the one to find them—and he hadn't been stumbling, not physically or metaphorically.

Shawn blinked rapidly as if to clear his vision or his mind, and found the important part of the disastrous reveal which had come out of his mouth when he had failed at being nondescript (and after that, briefly foreign with a weak grasp of English).

"I'm a psychic, man! I can divine the exact spots best for your next poach! Er, bag? Capture? Kill?" These last few words had made him nervous but he felt he couldn't stop now that he was devoid of his fake accent.

They must have had trackers who relied on actual skill for this, ones who had experience being nefarious and who studied maps and wind direction and and weather and whatever else poachers did to find the prime or choice poach. Shawn still considered he might be using that word wrong and felt another pang at Gus's absence. These were not men poaching for survival or hunting exotic butterfly species, but still they hesitated when it came to putting a bullet in him.

He wondered why Garth Longmore couldn't have shown such restraint.

Especially when these guys put together seemed to have even less a sense of humor.

# # #

They passed the rest of the drive with long and longer patches of silence, broken only by half-assed attempts between them to make sense of what little they had gathered at the Psych office.

Though Lassiter had admitted that he needed help to stave off Henry's irritating questions, he had made no effort to say why, and Henry had made no invitation to let him do so. Henry actually found it very unusual, the detective's continued restraint. He wondered if Lassiter was still fuming about one of their earlier spats, or that he was actually waiting for Henry to give him the go-ahead.

Henry was still faintly curious of Lassiter's huge problem, but it was too hard to ignore the creeping of worry, its calculated prowl just under his skin. And then there was the disappointment; Shawn, for all his impulses, had seemed to be gaining the sense that he needed to call backup if he would be squaring off against an unstable person with a weapon.

It was almost as if getting shot had taught him nothing. As if, in the end, the whole thing was just a game, still a game, a never ending joke. Henry guessed what Lassiter's input—as if Henry would actually share these musings—would be. He snorted to himself.

Henry had been making silent plans; the very first thing they would do was visit the ranger station listed in the file not to ask about the case but to discover if Shawn had already been there, two steps ahead. He was intending to do most of the talking, intending to be as vague as possible in case this was a whole lot of nothing. It might not hurt to have Lassiter introduce himself as Head Detective, but Henry hoped that was a card they wouldn't have to play. Sometimes a police presence helped for proper intimidation—and other times people just clammed up.

But then again, the DFG had reached out to the SBPD; that had to count for something. And since Karen Vick had given the case to her Head Detective, it was obviously a priority.

When they got there and found the correct ranger station and a couple of park rangers—Sam Cornell and John Dere—Lassiter surprised Henry. He shrugged off his moody, defensive, evasive self for the smooth talking, almost too polite authority figure, starting in before Henry had the chance to open his mouth.

Lassiter hit all the right points, introducing himself and then Henry and then stating that though he was not here in an official capacity today—but then when was an officer ever really off the clock?— he wanted to learn more about the "wildlife disturbance". "It's not officially being labeled poaching?" Lassiter asked.

Cornell sighed. "We have little evidence to back that up as yet. We can't track all the game all of the time."

"You mean, when there are diminished patrols."

"Sure, but that's not the only fault."

The conversation was taking too long for Henry. He broke off to talk to John Dere, already guessing that Shawn could have annoyed this man with enough stupid nicknames and puns to make him virtually unforgettable. He cut in, with his own version of smooth, the story he'd concocted on the way here, and pulled out Shawn's picture.

He was rewarded by a quick frown of Dere's—Shawn had been here after all. "You know him?" Dere asked, with an apology unsaid.

Henry nodded with a fake smile. "Little punk is my own blood. He invited me to go hiking on this trail—" Henry unfolded the tracing of the trail from a map Shawn had drawn. "We were supposed to meet here but guess got tired of waiting for me. Must have went on ahead. He called me to tell me where he was but the reception was too poor to get the location."

Dere nodded. "I believe that. Cell reception is poor, then worse, then non-existent the further in you go." He raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure he was going hiking? He only had a small backpack on him, short sleeves."

Henry shrugged. "He never a Boy Scout, what can I tell you." He hoped Shawn had enough actual supplies in that so-called small pack other than empty calorie snack foods. When Shawn was a boy, Henry had made him keep a well-stocked survival kit in a knapsack under his bed; every now and then, Henry would inspect it. Mostly it went untouched because Shawn never remembered it was there.

In fact, it was probably still there, collecting dust bunnies.

"I ask because he made no mention of it, said he was here on behalf of a friend." Henry listened to Dere repeat the questions Shawn had asked and the answers Dere had given him. It sounded like Shawn had been hired privately, just a day or two before the DFG case file had landed on Lassiter's desk.

He wondered if Lassiter was feeling vindicated—if he could even overhear this conversation.

"The poachers continue to get more aggressive, but also more careful. They get more but leave less behind so it's getting damn near impossible to catch them in the act," Cornell was saying. He waved a hand in Dere's direction. "Shawn, that guy who was in here earlier today, said he would write an article about it for the _Santa Barbara Star_. Maybe not much more than a rag of a paper, but it's getting the word out what a serious problem this is becoming again."

This managed to get both Henry's and Lassiter's attention at the same time. "He did?" Henry asked.

"Shawn said he was a freelance writer and photographer for the _Star_," Cornell explained to Lassiter, whose face was blank. "In fact, he said he was here on assignment, actually more of a favor for a friend."

Henry and Lassiter listened as Shawn's velvety smooth lies wrapped around them, gaining whatever in he needed before he headed out—but instead of leaving, he went into the park. Henry rubbed a hand across the back of his head. He knew enough to look chagrinned. "I must have gotten the date wrong, forgot that Shawn might be working, but since I'm here—is this trail accessible from here?" Henry pointed at the tracing again.

After he obtained the proper maps and directions, Henry turned to Lassiter. "Detective, do you have a few minutes to spare? Would you like to join me?"

Lassiter nodded. It was all the invitation he would ever get, despite the notion of it being painfully reminiscent of their trek during the early morning hours of the day the younger Spencer went missing. Comparatively, that journey was more like walking in a straight line; when they went into the forest there was another side to emerge from. Here, they might go in and never get out.

Was that saying true, about if you failed to learned from history you were just doomed to repeat it? Lassiter grimaced, stealing a glance at the back of Henry's neck as they headed out. He had even been tempted to ask if the elder Spencer wasn't juicing (again)—and kicked himself. He was doomed—that sounded about right.


	7. Chapter 7: If It Means Losing To You

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: So, it's been a while, but here's an update, finally. XD (Boo on Writer's Block!) Slightly longer chapter than previous ones to make up for the long time between updates. Thanks for all the support and encouragement to continue. Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcomed and appreciated. Happy Reading!

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**Chapter Seven: If Blame Is The Name Of The Game, Then I Won't Play, If It Means Losing To You**

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"Spencer, wait!" Lassiter called to Henry's quickly retreating back. "Wait!"

"Are you coming or not?" Henry barked over his shoulder without slowing down.

"Where the hell are you going?" Lassiter retorted, hurrying to keep up. "Do you even know?" He huffed. "Stop a goddamn minute so we can look over the map!"

Henry pointed toward a trail, a straight line that curved sharply into a long line of trees. "This is where Shawn was last seen—and that's where I'm starting." Lassiter's words were having no effect, bouncing off the armor he'd created sometime while he'd been inside the ranger station. His son had chosen a cover of photojournalist and had sounded knowledgeable enough—sans Gus—to fool the rangers. He had little supplies, according to them, certainly not enough for an hour's hike, but still he had gone into the woods, on the tail of criminal activity—or worse, he'd been following someone who had nefarious promise.

Henry was damned if he stopped; if this trail yielding nothing he'd had have to go back to square one. He had to hope he could make progress before it got dark and the temperature dropped. Finding a temporary camp was low on his list of priorities, but if he was stranded out there then that's what he would have to do. It would make little sense to move through the woods at night, no matter how worried he was about Shawn.

He actually forgot about Lassiter for a few minutes, not even sparing a thought for his reluctant companion until he remembered a detail from the case file—the alleged disappearance. Lassiter, he thought back, had been setting the groundwork for the investigation, asking one of the rangers cursory questions.

The poaching, if real, was hoped to be kept under wraps, thus the quiet request of SBPD involvement. A missing person was more a job for police than "wildlife disturbance"—but Henry saw the potential excitement Shawn could have found in both when accepting a private offer of searching. What in the world could have made him do this without Gus?

Henry stopped abruptly, looking over his surroundings. Streams of sunlight were still getting to his eyes through the tall, green leafed trees. Squinting, he turned around to check the progress of Lassiter, and was surprised to see the detective was quite aways behind.

# # #

Usually, Lassiter didn't buy into eerie mood setters—which had made it literally impossible for him to sit through any horror or suspense film without fuming at how farfetched the grip of fear was on any given human being—who was not, he relented, the sadistic or supernatural killer. In fact, for every one of these movies, he saw the resolution as simple—pull out your Glock and shoot.

But this wasn't some trite movie plot line—no. Lassiter chewed his lip. This was himself and Henry Spencer stalking the woods in hopes of finding any trace of Shawn Spencer, who had yet again managed to put himself in danger. Maybe. However, Lassiter allowed, this last bit they didn't know for certain—but hearing Henry repeat what Shawn had said about "being in over his head" was not sitting well with Lassiter. Shawn Spencer was a freaking danger magnet—and for whatever stupid reason, he always acted before his mind had fully caught up with explaining to the rest of him that what he was about to do was not at all rational.

He acted . . . like a rookie. Only a rookie would go looking for trouble in the middle of the night without telling anyone, except a friend who was not a cop. Lassiter glanced at the back of Henry's neck again. The elder Spencer's pace was a good three or four steps ahead of his, despite Lassiter's legs being much longer. He knew that he was allowing this, in a way, not because he was incapable of keeping up, but because the old scars hurt. The old scars of their one-time informal partnership—as well as the ones Victoria had left all over his body, figuratively, of course. Carlton scoffed. He bet Spencer didn't even feel the scars at all—not from their last trek into the woods, and certainly not any his ex-wife had imparted upon him before she'd left.

But it made Lassiter wonder: Did she take everything? Did she make unseemly, or unreasonable, demands? Didn't she know that having ripped out his heart was the worst thing she could do?

Lassiter had no idea he'd stopped to fidget until Henry spun around, several feet ahead of him. He flinched when Henry barked out why the hell was he just standing there, but Lassiter had finally been able to put two other people into the situation he was in with Victoria. It was a funny collage in his head, Henry and Madeleine Spencer's heads on his and Victoria's bodies, respectively. But the oddest thing was that, since he'd met Madeleine (and really opened up to her, embarrassingly enough), it was hard for him to guess that she was once a snake devil of an ex-wife.

He was starting to feel foolish; perhaps he had been terribly off to put any faith of getting through this on the wisdom of Henry Spencer. "Lassiter!" Henry snapped again, finally getting his attention. He started walking again, picking up his pace so he was just a few steps behind Henry again. It wasn't going to help if he didn't keep his eyes open—but he couldn't imagine their search would be as "easy" or "simple" as it had been the last time. There was no smashed clue lying helpfully on the road, and the direction they were going in could be backwards, wrong.

On top of that, all they had to go on were vague speculations—Shawn's crackling words and Lassiter's brief perusing of a case file through a heavy fog of medicine which may or may not be connected. Actually, Lassiter was hoping it was not at all connected. The scale of it was not only enormous but incredibly dangerous—and certainly not an errand to attempt alone. Not even just the two of them should be doing this—this was a thing for not just an entire department's field agents and uniforms but also others from surrounding jurisdictions as well as the full cooperation of the DFG—helicopters, dogs, everything available. But vague speculations were not what real cops dredged out when it came to missing persons searches. Certainly, in this case, there was an "alleged disappearance" on file, but it would call for the basics before anything full scale was launched, because there could be a chance that the missing person was not somewhere in Los Padres but elsewhere—anywhere. Out of town, out of state, out of country—rare, but not impossible. And whether it was they were truly missing or not could be up in the air.

Lassiter grimaced to himself, hoping he could avoid writing up some official report. He had a legitimate reason for stopping by Henry's house, but less of one for taking up an unauthorized search. Still . . . It could be a walk in the woods that was turned on its head—something far out of his control. Lassiter found himself nodding—this could be believable. Let the Chief believe he was at home in bed. What she didn't know wouldn't hurt her or him.

What would damn him for sure was if either Spencer went to her and opened his mouth. Vick certainly seemed to have a soft spot for Spencers. Lassiter clenched his fists and jaw simultaneously. This meant he had to get Henry on his side—pretty much an impossible feat.

Lassiter reached up to wipe his face, surprised how sweaty it was. And how cold it felt.

# # #

Lassiter's face was flushed, though they couldn't have been walking for much more than forty-five minutes and it wasn't that hot, Henry thought. Before he could comment, Lassiter caught up with him and snapped, "Are you deaf? Would it have killed you to stop or at least answer me?"

Henry heard him huffing and puffing, as if breathless, as he'd been sprinting to keep up and raised an eyebrow. "It's not my fault you're out of shape, Detective. Do yourself a favor, take a break from the range and hit the gym once in a while."

Henry was rewarded with a lethal glare from Lassiter that made him smirk.

Carlton bit back the snark he wanted to spew and forced his voice to be soft and low. "Care to clue me on your plans, Spencer? Like it or not, we're partners during this whole foolhardy hiking trek, at least for a couple more hours. Admit it, you need me. I'm another pair of eyes, another skill set, another brilliant mind—"

"All right!" Henry cut him off, rubbing his temples with his knuckles. He pointed down the trail, which curved now to the left. "That's the direction we're going in. Not only was Shawn seen going this way but this is the general area on the map from the Psych office." He raised both eyebrows. "Unless you and _your brilliant mind_ have a better idea?"

Lassiter's face stretched into a scowl but he ignored the dig. "You already said that, so you've got no more real idea about how to go about this than Shawn." His mind circled back to the extensive considerations he had done over the scale of a search party and a word made its way to his lips, unbidden, since the word "civilian" was not most well taken when it came to him. "What we need could use is . . backup."

"Backup?" Henry repeated, turning on him. The detective had planted his feet and was gazing unhelpfully at the sky, squinting at the bright light. "This is nature walk, _not_ an official police investigation!" he shouted, startling a few nearby birds.

Too slowly, Lassiter reacted to Henry's tone, as if he couldn't quite hear him, moving his eyes from the sky to Henry's face. Then he shivered, barely aware of it, barely aware of his body's rebelling against his will. Henry's voice cut into him briefly, pulling him backwards, into the present. Like going through a tunnel. "Are you crazy? What the hell is the matter with you?"

Spencer blurred indistinctly before him, split into a long chain of Spencers, hazy light around his body and his ball-cap covered head. Before he could stop himself, Lassiter staggered forward. He forced down a twisting in his gut that urged him to expel just anything that might be left, as well as a sudden urge to drop to his knees and lie down in the dirt.

This was the last thing he wanted happening, not just because it was humiliating, but it was also a terrible way to gain Henry's sympathy. If anything, showing this much weakness would close Henry off from being anything but an utter jerk to him, ordering him about and insulting him whenever he got the chance. Just like before.

Lassiter lost his footing after he staggered, which seemed off to him, since last he remembered he was standing perfectly still. An earthy smell invaded his nostrils, sweat beaded at his temples, and his own breath was heavy in his ears. He waved his hand in a gesture for Henry to go on ahead. The sky was spinning, or was it the trees? His eyes crossed and his vision blurred into a teary blue-black. If he could just wait here a minute, just a minute, rest his eyes. . . .

Lassiter became acutely aware that Henry Spencer had a good hold on his shoulders. His arms were almost limp at his sides, and there was a sheen of sweat at his temples. He coughed softly, grimacing at how the congestion had increased since he'd last thought of it. Pressure tightened behind his eyes, but despite the pain, he tried to get himself out of Henry's grasp. He could smell Henry's breath—beer diluted by frequent sips of water—but what was most unpleasant, even slightly embarrassing, was the realization that his personal space had been compromised by the man who considered him incompetent, even sloppy, and worse, unreachable.

(It was only because of Juliet O'Hara's influence that Lassiter could recognize that he was not entirely unreachable—that he was both man and cop who was perfectly capable of making mistakes like any other human being but was also an exceptional example of what hard work, diligence, and passion for justice could do not only for himself but for the community around him. She helped him to feel more respected—and to be more respectful, though the latter often made him grumble, even out of her presence. It was easy, she had said, for him to be that stubborn—had even said that it was in his nature to resist, but had given him the hardened parts of his personality because she knew that he had spent a great deal of his life as a solitary man. Lonely, even. The latter being what she intended—even against his will—to remedy. And it was because of her that he was more in touch—she had made it her important mission to bring him back to life, show him compassion—and because of all of this, Lassiter made the quick decision not to squirm out of Henry's grasp.)

There must be a good reason Henry had grabbed him, why he hadn't let go. As soon as Lassiter realized awareness of the grasp, he realized that Henry was growling at him while moving him—partially dragging him—to where there were a clump of trees. "Carlton?" Henry asked gruffly. "Are you all right?"

Lassiter was ready to growl right back at Henry to let him go when a wave of unwellness traveled through his innards. It was fast, cruel, a feeling which made his body slacken, his eyes roll back—just a few seconds. He was in the grip, but resisted, jerking as much of himself away from it as he could—nothing physical, of course, this inward resistance. He grunted with effort, seething, trying to ignore the weightlessness of his limbs. When he was aware enough again, he realized Henry was helping him to forest floor, leaning his back up against a tree, the skin of his face pulled taut. Lassiter ignored it for his irritation, even as Henry squatted down next to him, pressing the back of his hand to Lasstier's forehead. Lassiter was too dizzy from the change in altitude to protest.

Henry cursed under his breath. "You're burning up. Are you sick?"

Lassiter's eyes opened enough to glare at Henry. "I don't get sick."

Henry frowned. "Let me guess, you're going to claim you were bitten by a tick."

Lassiter scowled. He pulled his eyes off Henry and stared in another direction. It was pointless to respond; both Spencers had it in for him, no matter what—he was always going to be someone lesser to both. Well, nothing to do about it. Instead, he got his arms to cooperate, using the tree at his back to help him to his feet. He wasn't doing any good sitting here; and he had another ungrateful Spencer out there to rescue.

Henry grabbed his shoulders again and shoved him down. The two men glared at each other; another stalemate. Finally, Henry spoke. "Will you just rest for a couple of goddamn minutes?"

"Rest?" Lassiter shot back angrily, "_Rest_ while your son is out there somewhere and I'll have to hear about later from you that only _a poor excuse for a detective_ would stop for 'personal time'? Give me a goddamn break." He repeated his actions to stand, shooting daggers at Henry in place of saying "Keep your goddamn hands off me" because he wasn't positive that the Chief hadn't had some good intentions when she sent him home to rest after all.

Henry cursed again, this time aloud but actually didn't move to stop Lassiter from getting up. He watched the detective sway on his feet, even while still pressed up against the tree, and got a knot in his throat. Lassiter must have been at the beginnings of the flu that was going around the SBPD—which would explain why he had dropped by Henry's just before eleven in the afternoon. He knew it as well as he knew himself that it wasn't in Lassiter to admit any weakness, no matter how potentially debilitating—save for that brief slip of the tongue the last time they were running in the woods together, tracking Shawn, on the run. There must be another reason he had come out here, other than to prove something to Henry about who was the better police officer.

Henry felt sobered by what he guessed was Lassiter's reason—he was desperate for some piece of enrichment or advice that he had deemed Henry to be the most qualified for—if not the only party "willing" to help him—and this had made him the more determined to help locate Henry's wayward son. It had not been in his intentions to sway a few minutes earlier, to almost lose his balance on nearly flat ground—and Henry had stepped in without thinking about, without any degrading remarks. This had gone on long enough—he had let it—and it was getting time to make that apology. But shouldn't Lassiter already know that by then, he was just being Shawn's father, peeved at almost being kept from the investigation by the SBPD's Head Detective?

But shouldn't Henry also know that Lassiter wasn't trying to be an insensitive jerk but was a by-the-book detective following protocol? Henry sighed. He and Shawn had often lacked proper communication throughout the years, so much so that the two had become estranged. But ever since the two had found themselves back in Santa Barbara—and had discovered the other's return—they had both, slowly, been working towards mending the chasms in their old relationship.

Not that Lassiter was anything like Shawn, but Henry knew it wouldn't kill him to have and keep another friend—especially one who was a proud and dedicated member of the SBPD. One also willing to do his job at all costs to his health, even when he despised partnering up with people who annoyed him, who told him how to do his job or actually did it for him. Henry watched as Lassiter took a few steps away from the tree, recognizing the denial that Lassiter was in; the man should be at home, forced into sleep by half a bottle of NyQuil.

Henry bit back a sigh and followed the detective stiffly moving form. He debated the best—and least caring—way to offer Lassiter some time to rest, but so far was coming up short. What Carlton had yelled in his face about the whole resting thing hadn't been far from the truth; but it still stung to have it thrown back at him by someone who saw and knew his motives so clearly. Sure, finding Shawn was a high priority, but Henry hadn't foreseen that Lassiter was ill enough to nosedive off the edge of the earth. Thinking back to his driveway, those long hours ago, Henry recalled how haggard Lassiter had looked, and then, on the drive to Los Padres, how Lassiter had slipped from feigned alertness into full on slumber.

Shawn, Henry mused ruefully, would have known right away how sick Lassiter was; he would not have just thought the detective needed to scale back on the double shifts or up his intake of caffeine. Maybe . . . Henry considered, maybe if he hadn't received Shawn's call, maybe if the two of them had just had the few words Lassiter had wanted to exchange, Henry would have seen how bad off Lassiter really was.

But it was too late now to change minds. Even if Henry could manage to drag Lassiter, kicking and screaming, out of the woods and back to his truck, there was no guarantee he would stay put. And he himself would not be convinced to simply drive back to Santa Barbara and forget the whole thing.

"You should have told me you were sick," Henry muttered, staring at Lassiter's back. He quickened his pace and caught up with Lassiter, whose longer legs were now keeping him a few steps ahead. His ears were still red with the embarrassment he couldn't shake at losing consciousness in front of Henry Spencer.

"I'm not sick," Lassiter huffed after a minute, keeping his eyes off Henry. Henry would be able to read the lie on his face—if he couldn't already hear it in his words.

"Uh huh. So then you pass out all the time for no reason?" Henry shot back. "I think if that were true I would have heard about it from Shawn and Gus by now." He grabbed Lassiter's arm. "I want you to listen to me, Detective. You may be sick, but I still need your help. If I didn't need your help, you would still be standing in my driveway."

"Let go of me, Spencer," Lassiter snarled, trying to shake his arm free.

"I will not, not until you rest. Eat some protein bars and hydrate."

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "We haven't even been walking for a full hour! We have limited daylight and might have to make camp. And I refuse to be the cause, the reason or the excuse as why whatever happens or happened to your son happens or happened!"

Henry scrunched up his eyes, trying make sense of what Lassiter had just said. He tugged on Lassiter's arm, forcing the detective to turn toward him. Lassiter stared at him blearily, his cheeks and temples flushed. Henry couldn't say if that was out of rage or sickness, however. "Yeah?" he retorted, his blue eyes tight. "I refuse to be the cause, reason or excuse you end up in the ER with pneumonia or something worse. Stop being such an ass and sit down."

"I won't!" Lassiter barked. "It's no one's fault but my own that I went to you in the first place. Or that I'm out here now. And that if anything happens to me, it happens."

Henry sighed loudly, releasing Lassiter so he could run both hand across his eyes. With his head down, he looked earnestly at Lassiter's sneakers, shoes he never would never at work, even if given a choice to do so.

"Karen sent you home, didn't she?" Henry asked, lifting his head and staring at Lassiter again, who had stubbornly set his face against any further scoldings. "You're supposed to be taking a day or so to kick the flu, but you ignored her direct order."

"It wasn't a direct order," Lassiter let slip.

Henry smiled darkly. "But you could still get in trouble for disobeying her. She obviously had a decent reason to keep you out of the station. I could . . . anonymously . . . tip her off, about you," Henry noted off-handedly. "I wonder if she would make you use some of your vacation time. Maybe a full week of it."

Lassiter's mouth formed a quick, elongated "O", his eyes narrowing just as fast. The fear was gone. "You wouldn't," he growled. He jabbed a finger at Henry's chest. "It wouldn't be anonymous. Vick knows your voice."

Henry shrugged. He liked that Lassiter didn't know if his threat was empty or not; this was a tactic he'd used time and time again on Shawn—even after his son got wise. But it was not escaping him that the detective needed to be kept in line, by whatever means necessary, because of how ill he actually was.

Lassiter looked like he was trying to muster a potent argument against Henry's threat, why it would never work, but he dropped it, sulking. Henry didn't like it, Lassiter giving up that quickly, but he didn't let it show. This meant something was very wrong—if not health wise than in some other aspect. Lassiter had no choice, apparently. Henry clapped him on the back. "So we're agreed?"

"Yes," Lassiter growled back, muttering something under his breath that Henry chose not to fully make out.


	8. Chapter 8: The Devil You Know

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: In honor (grumbling) of being sick for four days, getting better for two days and then getting sick again for another seven-ish days, I've decided to turn my attention back to this Sick!Fic (also, because I actually have a free moment to do so). Hope you enjoy! :) Thanks for reading!

Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcomed and appreciated. Thanks!

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**Chapter Eight: The Devil You Know Is Better Than The One You Don't**

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Resting, or sitting stiffly and scowling, as Lassiter was doing, seemed to do good for both of them. Lassiter, though he wasn't about to say it, did like the idea of the ground and the sky not spinning around his head, though he was starting to feel less like a partner and more like a hostage. Henry used the time to further study the map and surmise Shawn's route.

What could he do? He had gotten himself into this. The best solution was to either find Shawn or find out if Shawn was really here and not at some Del Taco with Guster in Goleta, and then get the hell out of here. And possibly avoid either Spencer at all costs for the next few months.

Lassiter grumbled to himself. He was starting to let go of the questions he had wanted, so desperately this morning, to ask. But the sickness that was clouding his thoughts and apparently, his judgment and motor skills, kept tugging them back, reforming them and placing them at the forefront of his mind. A month ago he would have considered these thoughts to be gnawing, bringing him insomnia, twisted digestion and a host of other psychological symptoms of restlessness. _Face it,_ the flu taunted him, _you're screwed. Ask the damn questions, what have you got to lose? _

His annoyance for Henry Spencer and Henry Spencer's hiking methods, means of conversation and threatening, sardonic apologies dulled beneath the the veil of his cluttered, drug-addled, flu-filled mind the longer he sat waiting, but Lassiter had no real trust of it dispelling completely. There was no real world he could imagine in which he could be on buddy-buddy terms with any of the Spencers (even Madeleine was excluded from this; she was _especially_ excluded); no matter what—even if they happened to see eye to eye, or there was actual life saving involved, Lassiter knew that it was always going to be "same shit, different day" with the father-and-son menaces.

He sighed, experiencing some relief. _That's the way it's supposed to be._ In fact, if one of them wasn't provoking him to start, he should take the initiative to antagonize. If he was honest—and they were too—they were all much more comfortable with each other when they were disagreeing, angering, or generally pissing the other ones off. That seemed to be the basis of Henry and Shawn's father-son relationship, with the "touchy-feeling" distant man emotion stuff coming after a period of decades. Unfortunately, Lassiter didn't have that luxury; for some godforsaken reason, both Spencers had come to begrudgingly tolerate him and/or appreciate to mock his Head Detective status much too soon for his liking.

Still . . . Shawn seemed to know who to call whenever he was in—or about to be in—real trouble. Except for that time when was shot and kidnapped, Lassiter reflected with smugness. Then, Spencer had called Guster, excited as a know-it-all child with a big secret to tell.

With another sigh, he leaned back on his elbows and closed his eyes. Thinking about that day exhausted him, because with all that had happened, there had been a tiny part of him troubled—Carlton rolled his eyes recalling it—that after their 24-hour wild goose chase, they would find Spencer dead. Spencer had a target on his back, either because he drew it himself with his antics or because anyone with bad intentions who knew him for five minutes would want him stopped for good.

Carlton opened one eye to steal a look at the elder Spencer. Henry had his back to him, but Carlton could make out a hard expression from the side of Henry's half turned head. He looked almost out of breath, which filled Lassiter with some evil glee. (Lassiter was determined to find glee in something as silly as that Henry could be breathless sitting still if he was not while he was running on adrenaline.) He was certain that Henry had no real idea as to why he'd been furious after Guster called Henry the morning of Shawn's abduction. When he'd said there'd been no place for family, he meant it, because as a homicide detective, he knew too well what the outcome could be. Realistically, it could have been better—and maybe even hurt less—if Henry and Guster had been kept out of the investigation and search-rescue/recovery had Shawn Spencer been just a body to be recovered, just another murder to be solved.

Lassiter frowned. That looked good on paper, but he couldn't really sell it, not even to himself. If he had, he would have used his authority to push Henry back behind the police tape that dark morning. Shawn liked to consider them a team—himself and Guster plus Juliet and Lassiter, maybe even the Chief and Henry Spencer could be included, as alternates. The idea used to enrage Lassiter; his team was his brothers in blue before Shawn's psychic fakery had descended its unholiness upon the SBPD, but it was harder and harder to deny Shawn's success rate for solving tricky, sometimes high profile, cases.

If they were all a supposed team, Lassiter didn't have to like it. The important part was what they could do working together (or even working against each other until each half came to some compromise). He opened both eyes and made a curt nod in Henry's direction. If the two of them were makeshift partners (with power struggle clashes) again, Lassiter acknowledged and accepted it. He could be a team player, if had no other options.

# # #

It was a lucid moment, as lucid as Shawn could recognize of late, though he couldn't say he was immediately thankful to be awake. Awake—if he could call it that. His head ached and he was nauseated and starving the more conscious he became. The darkness had become a friend—or rather, a fiend, as the silence of his own tongue had become. The silencing. For a while, they—the faceless multiples with their harsh, clipped words and assault rifles—had had all of his voice they could take, and when the sleeping pills wore off, they—he—she—(one, Shawn recalled, had waist length hair and delicate feminine features, but had shown no sympathy towards him) had made certain his ability to speak clearly was impaired.

Shawn's wrists and elbows were bruised; not only had he tried talking his way out—and then later screaming for anyone who might know even Cameron Luntz from SWAT (that's how desperate he had been during a tense ten seconds)—he had also, at every other panicked and/or level-headed opportunity, tried to scramble out of or break the ropes that held him to this or that inanimate object. He was not one of the Hardy Boys, not even the good-looking one with the perfect coif. (By seventeen, he was out of high school and on his way out of Santa Barbara, not getting martial arts training, chasing spies, or becoming immortal. Come on, he couldn't be the _only_ one to think that the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew were vampires or highlanders, right? No one, he figured, had ever tried to cut off their heads with a sword to find out for sure.)

Shawn held his jaw slack, hoping to achieve whatever relief possible as he fought for comfort around the thick, soggy cloth tied around his head. He could feel the ghost of a grin as he imagined the care he would have to take with the cuts on his mouth and face when he was back home, sipping pineapple smoothies through a straw.

He pressed his head against some hard, unyielding piece of wood. A sinking feeling snuck up on him as he considered the normalcy of being home, enjoying delicious flavor. Well, mostly just the _going_ _home_ part. He thought of himself as a pretty buoyant guy, and was usually greatly impressed by his own natural will to bounce back after being hurt, emotionally or physically. Still, he found it harder to be so optimistic in life-and-death situations where he was prevented from talking things out, even talking things out just to himself. He'd already tried talking through his gag but it just wasn't the same.

Shawn again thought about his somewhat careless call to his father. It was his last lifeline (yes, at that point in the day, Shawn had been _that_ desperate too) after failing to reach Gus, whose phone was off or on silent. First annoyed, during messages 1-10, and later, by message 15, getting scared, Shawn cursed Gus's constant dedication to his other job in favor of leaving his best friend (literally) stranded with a new, urgent and intriguing private case. After message 20, when Gus's inbox was full and no longer accepting voice mail, Shawn called Henry. By that point, he was nearly too deep into the trees to get any service, let alone any reliable service.

(It had been too bad, he still scoffed, that he had been unable to charm Jules into letting him borrow one of the SBPD's satellite phones, but when he had gone to station he had been in a rush and she hadn't been in any good mood to deal with him. In fact, when he had arrived it had still been dark, not yet seven am, and Jules was only there so early to catch up on paperwork.

Lassiter's paperwork.

He was, according to her, too sick to do it well himself and even sicker to admit it.

She was bleary-eyed, taking large gulps out of a coffee mug, and barely seemed to acknowledge Shawn's presence until he made his request. "Is it for a case?" she'd asked sharply, her eyes still on her report.

"Yes," Shawn replied with sincerity.

Juliet cleared her throat. "Is it for a case the Chief assigned you?"

"Well, no."

Juliet raised a hand and pointed down the hall, catching herself during the silent gesture. "Go, Shawn."

"Go get the phone?" Shawn asked, smiling. "You'll be only too happy to fill the forms out for me?"

She glared at him. "No, you've got to leave. Go home. I can't help you." )

Because the cell service had been so poor, Shawn didn't think Henry had heard the fear that had leaked into his voice which had been present full-on in Gus's 16th message. By then, Shawn didn't _think_ he had bitten off more than he could chew, he _knew_ it.

He guessed he could offhandedly and unfairly blame Lassie for this mess. But it probably didn't matter that Juliet had been so insistent on getting sickie Lassie's work done before he came to spread his sickie germs around; things had been a _smidgen_ less friendly between them since he'd chosen to date Abby.

And then had to tell Jules he loved her while pretending to be talking to Abby.

Shawn pushed this specific thought away. He was in enough trouble currently without adding emotional confusion to the mix. Instead, he focused on the short way his father had answered him during their crackling call.

He wanted to believe, even if Henry hadn't heard all of his words or the pinched way he said some of them, that his father would choose not to dismiss the call as nonsense. He guessed that Henry would have tried to call him back, but by then cell service had gone from unreliable to nonexistent. His battery was dead.

# # #

Lassiter got to his feet. He couldn't sit still for another second, even though he was reluctant to ask Henry what the plan was. If he was honest with himself, he was itching to call this in, but was also a tad afraid that it would turn out to be little more than a "missing hiker" who "hallucinated" seeing criminals at work in the national park. "More like a missing faker," he mumbled to himself, "if he's even missing."

Henry turned at his approach, and for a defensive few seconds, Lassiter wondered if he'd been overheard. He could already hear Henry's anger slapping him full in the face, words like "dehydration", "delirium" and "gaping infected head wound" highly emphasized, and braced himself for a tirade. But Henry looked him over and said, "You're ready?"

"Are you?" Lassiter asked.

Henry started to walk toward an area where the trees were thick, where hardly any sunlight penetrated. Carlton followed, annoyance swelling again as they walked in silence. He was almost at Henry's mercy, waiting on him until he decided to reveal the plan, if there was one. At first, walking in full shade was a comfort, but too soon Lassiter noticed the chill, as if he were not wearing enough layers not to feel it. Henry was in a tee shirt and was fine, so Carlton gritted his teeth and ignored it. He noted, with more irritation, that the dizzy feeling was making a comeback, causing his head to fill like a balloon about to float away.

Lassiter reverted to his earlier ideas of focusing on his steps and his surroundings but took care to stay in exact step with Henry; it seemed better to walk as equals to balance their individual struggles for control for the time being. They walked for an hour or two without speaking, though Carlton caught the occasional sideways glance from Spencer, who was either checking on his well-being or his breaking point.

Henry, for his part, took momentary breaks from worrying about his son to check on his sick partner and consult the map from Shawn's office. He tried to suppress the gnawing apprehension that they were just walking into a trap—a notion he tried and tried again to dismiss as melodramatic. If not a trap exactly then at least something equally sinister. Perhaps there were no snipers lying in wait for them, but Henry knew that they were still approaching danger of some sort with little to no idea of what that sort was. Poachers, depending on what they were poaching, as well as what kind of men—or women—they were deep down (or right on the surface), might eagerly bear weapons and shoot to kill anyone in their way in order to protect what they had taken. But then again, they might be a small group, or just a pair, and they might not have murder or manslaughter on their minds.

Not even if a persistent, talkative and charming pseudo-psychic caught them in the act.

More than once, Henry wanted to stop, just to acknowledge the paralyzing fear that they might be too late. But he knew if he stopped, he might not be able to keep going. He counted on his son's skill at monologuing to buy him and Lassiter—and Shawn himself—time. Shawn could be shrewd enough to judge situations as they happened, though there were the times his mouth got him into bad trouble. (Would anything have stopped Longmore from shooting Shawn since Shawn recognized him? Henry couldn't really answer that.)

Henry kept his eyes peeled for signs that Shawn might have also gone through this way, but at the time, Shawn had had little reason to mark his trail (no ripped pieces of shirt tied around branches). What he started to notice was that Lassiter began having a difficult time matching his pace after they crossed the two-hour mark. The trees had become so thick overhead that it almost seemed to be nighttime; Lassiter didn't seem to notice. He was breathing too heavily to comment on the sky change. Selfishly, Henry did pick up his pace for a half an hour in part to see how Lassiter would handle it, but he later grew slightly ashamed of his mean streak.

He cleared his throat. "You okay, old man?"

Lassiter grunted, adding a few seconds later, "I'm still younger than you are."

Henry's mouth twitched. He decided to take the grunting as a yes rather than a way for Lassiter to dodge the question. Maybe now was as good a time as any to force Lassiter to ask to describe the problem he so badly needed advice for. Henry could do with some distraction, especially one that might require thoughtful answers on his part. His heart was hardly in it, but he tried to find the words which would compel Lassiter to explain. "Listen . . ."

"I'm fine," Lassiter said, waving a hand in Henry's direction. "I want to keep going."

Henry's brows pulled together. "Drink some water, will you? Your voice sounds like crap."

Lassiter smirked back, to Henry's surprise. Henry had been sure the Head Detective would start something from his remark. Lassiter retrieved a bottle of water and took a swig. "Yes, Dad," he hissed under his breath in between sips—words that Henry caught. The ball was in Henry's court now; he could react or ignore it; the truth was, Henry wasn't sure how to react. There was no sarcasm behind the words, but then, they were spoken so softly that Henry couldn't actually be sure what their intent was. (He could guess they were mockery, he wasn't stupid.) Still, another anger-filled, bitter fight with Lassiter was one of the last ways he wanted to distract himself. He took a breath and was about to release it when he heard Lassiter gasp.

"Shit," Lassiter hissed, looking at the ground some four or five yards on the curving trail ahead of them.

Henry almost didn't want to look. Lassiter stood frozen next to him. When he looked, he saw immediately that it was body, lying with its head and arms outstretched towards them, on its back. It was a man, but as Henry craned his neck to see more, he noticed there was something off about the face.

Lassiter left him and approached the body slowly. The smell of decaying flesh hit him halfway there; this man had been dead for a two or three days. He had dark hair like Shawn's, but he was middle-aged and had more of an athletic build, not to mention unseeing blue eyes. The part of his face which was visible was missing flesh on the cheek, forehead, and neck, exposing muscle and bone. Carlton curled his lip in disgust; animals had started to feed.

The uniform was recognizable even without Carlton having repeatedly studied the file he had been given this morning. "I think I found the missing park ranger," he called gruffly to Henry, keeping his grim gaze on the dead man. Of all the things he thought of finding in these woods today, a break in his missing persons case was not one of them.

At least, a break in the _official_ missing persons case.


	9. Chapter 9: Trouble's Been Evicted

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: Yes, another long time, wasn't it? Chapter Ten is on its way to being written, so possibly that might be a sooner update than this one. Anyway, hope you enjoy reading! :) Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcomed and appreciated! :)

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**Chapter Nine: Trouble's Been Evicted From The Devil's Lair **

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For a few moments or more, they were both nothing more than hardened cops, pausing for breath over a corpse at the beginning of an investigation—starting at the end. Lassiter's head started to spin with eager whispers of procedure and protocol, even as his chest and throat tightened in protest. What would his _official_ story—er, statement—be, for Vick, and for the first few cops—as this was DFG jurisdiction—on the scene? His head might have been filled with something else akin to dread, but he couldn't actually place this feeling or understand where it was coming from.

Squatting down, Carlton retrieved a pen from the inside of his jacket so he could look for ID. He knew he shouldn't touch the body before the ME, but he wanted to know if this was the missing man he had been tasked with investigating and potentially finding. He snorted uncouthly. He was chiefly a _homicide_ detective, and thus had no real optimism of finding missing people alive. To be frank, he had never possessed the trait for optimism; it was more natural for him to look at the world through dark colored glasses.

Yanking off his cap, Henry ran a hand over his head, his heart beating fast. There had been a second, a split second, where he'd thought . . .

He shook the thought away. Shawn hadn't mentioned a corpse when he called, so maybe he hadn't come this way, as Henry thought. He looked away, listening to the low sounds of nature—humming insects, calls of birds, tree trunks creaking or branches moving in a light breeze. And then he looked back, at Lassiter still crouching over the body, watching Lassiter's eyes narrow as he stared at the man's neck. Henry shook his head, a knot in his gut.

He had to do it. He had to leave the scene of the crime. He couldn't afford to wait around, answer a bunch of dumb questions for hours on end—probably which would take place miles in the direction they'd already come from. They only had so much daylight, already dwindling far too fast. Sure, the cop in him—former, if men like Henry ever really retired—warned him not to just keep walking into the woods. As he considered dropping Lassiter's dead weight—after all, Lassiter was still on active duty, even if not today—he saw the detective put the phone to his ear.

Damn, he'd beat Henry to it. It was time to cut his losses. Henry starting walking, taking a detour around the body to get back to the path—or a path, at least.

Carlton stood up fast—making his head spin now less with questions and more with dizziness. "Spencer!" he barked through his woozy moment, his voice distorted by congestion. "Where the hell—?" He yanked the phone from his ear, his vision going red at the sudden betrayal. "You can't leave!"

Henry paused, clenching his jaw, and looked back over his shoulder. "Watch me," he offered curtly by way of explanation.

Carlton growled back inaudibly, baring his teeth in the process. He glanced quickly at the body as if to be assured the dead man wasn't going to move, and then took a few steps in Henry's direction. "There's procedure, you stubborn old fool!" His voice broke on the words and left him coughing deep from the chest. Carlton bent at the waist, trying to get control of his warring insides. As he righted himself, his eyes were wet with exertion and he hastily wiped them with the back of his hand.

A smug smile etched itself into Henry's features, vaguely reminiscent of the younger Spencer's—a grim prediction of Shawn's wrinkles and sun damage to come. "You're the cop, old man," Henry reminded him, smiling without humor.

Lassiter sighed loudly, ignoring how at half strength he felt all of a sudden. "Yes, fine, but you can't just—"

Henry crinkled his mouth in that annoying gesture again.

Lassiter gritted his teeth. Certainly under ordinary circumstances, he didn't need or want any Spencers around him while he was trying to conduct an investigation—but weren't these special circumstances? And _not_ just because he wanted a big favor from Henry, he told himself. "You shouldn't go out there alone," Lassiter heard himself call exasperatedly. Was that brittle concern in his voice? God. Was it . . . _pleading?_ He sighed to himself. He was never going to live this down. Vick would kill him either way. Still . . . didn't his chief know him well enough to know he wasn't going to spend even a sick day wallowing in bed? He shrugged to himself. _Already stepped in it, there's no way out now, _he thought, resigned. "Even if you can handle yourself in the elements!" he continued with new vigor, blearily staring at the figure moving up a hill.

Henry had started walking, cutting through thick clusters of trees, but he slowed his pace so as not to yet be out of sight. Lassiter's words, however distant, were getting to him, but he didn't want that, yet he couldn't help himself from engaging. "You may be chained to your job," he called back but without turning around, "but I'm not. I've been there, done that, and now I've got a son to find."

"'Been there, done that', who says that anymore?" Carlton needled, unable to help himself.

Henry bared his teeth and whirled around in spite of himself. "Carlton, stop wasting what little light and time I have! Do you know how much ground I have to cover? I have no idea what could be happening to Shawn right now but I—" Henry broke off, tears stinging at the back of his eyes. "But I have a pretty good idea" was what he had been about to say. Without intending it, he'd let his mind go to _that_ place, the one all too eager to supply him with all the worst case scenarios. A pretty good—or a pretty bad—idea. Choked up, Henry turned away. The red hot anger he'd been firing at Lassiter had just left him, cold, left him alone with his fears.

"Spencer, really," Carlton's voice spoke quietly, much closer to him than he should be. "You're an emotionally compromised man with a gun on a mission in unknown territory. Sounds like a bad combo for a search and rescue."

Search and rescue. Oh. Henry narrowed his eyes, trying to clear out his rawer emotions. "How do you know I have a gun?"

Carlton shook his head. "Look, give me a couple of minutes to call this in. And then we keep going, together. Okay?"

"How is that possible? You can't leave."

"Watch me," Lassiter retorted, a snarky grin quirking the side of his mouth. Before Henry could get him to explain, Lassiter walked back to the body, first gesturing for him to wait.

True to his word, he returned a few minutes later, coughing again. When he about reached Henry, Carlton turned his head and spit—an unsettling thing that shook Henry. Carlton was not a guy who spit in public—or even in the wilderness.

"What did you do?" Henry hissed—meaning more what he'd just seen than what compromise had been made in order for Lassiter to walk away from a crime scene. Still, it was like a hit and run—and just not done.

Lassiter shrugged, wiping his mouth with the back of hand, another gesture that made Henry cringe. "I called it in to the rangers' station, but I said there was no ID because there wasn't one on the body. I said that it might be the missing ranger, but I just wasn't sure." Henry watched Lassiter look too proud of himself, his cheeks and forehead flushed again. "Then I told them the suspect could still be in the area and that I was going to check it out. They told me to wait but . . . you know how spotty reception can be out here." He smiled a mischievous smile that crinkled his eyes and made him look, for an instant, like someone else.

Henry swallowed hard. In a blink, it was gone. "You didn't tell them it looks like a body dump?"

Lassiter shrugged. "I told them enough. It should buy us a good half hour before they make it out here."

Henry's jaw dropped at the realization. "_You_ lied to the cops? Just how sick are you?" Unthinkingly, he reached for Carlton's forehead, wanting to see if the detective's fever was up.

Carlton frowned and side-stepped him. "Hell. I could ask you the same. I thought this is what you wanted."

Henry gave him a hard, suspicious look. This was the man who, less than ten minutes ago, had wanted to follow procedure and fall back on the training he was used to as the homicide detective he was investigating a murder.

But . . . _search and rescue. _Not . . . search and retrieval. The living took precedent over the dead.

Without waiting for approval, or for him, Lassiter got back to walking.

Henry sighed, and picked up his pace—thirty minutes head start or not, it seemed Lassiter wasn't about to take any chances. "Are you sure about this?" he asked, not ready to let the issue drop. It all seemed—and, thinking back to Lassiter's subdued behavior at the rangers' station—un-Lassitarian. Henry grunted to himself; Shawn's word play had started to rub off on him, and not for the better.

Actually, it was secretly killing him to do this—be a renegade of sorts, but Carlton wasn't about to tell Henry that. Still, the reason he'd given to the DFG wasn't that far off the map—he was attempting pursuit of an person of interest, even if he had zero clues as to where said person might be. He stole a glance at Henry, wondering, for a millisecond if Shawn's psychic bullshit was "inherited", but dismissed the bad idea just as quickly. If Henry were really "psychic", he would know exactly where to go to locate his son, and they would have been at that spot already. Besides . . . _Henry Spencer_ a psychic? Lassiter scoffed aloud. It couldn't be physically or _metaphysically_ possible.

Lassiter's scoff drew Henry's attention, misunderstanding it as some kind of unanswered answer to his question. At this point, Henry would take a solid lie over silence—even if Carlton fervently claimed he was in top health, which was stupid, because Henry already knew what a big fat lie that was. In spite of Lassiter's half truths to the DFG, done out of time saving or in favor of keeping up their mismatched partnership, Henry was uneasy about the whole thing. He half expected a huge argument from the younger man over it—or at least angry under-his-breath grumbling as the two of them made their way further into the woods. After what felt like a long time but couldn't have been that long, he challenged Lassiter's decision.

"Why didn't you stay with the corpse? That guy—he was your case. That pithy thin folder," Henry reminded, as if either of them had forgotten about that annoying fiasco. "You could have stayed and left me to go."

Carlton's shoulders stiffened. "Can't you just let this go, Spencer?"

"No, I can't," Henry retorted.

"He was just part of the case," Carlton stated in a low growl. He chose not to look at Henry but to keep his attention forward, in the direction they were still walking in. There was a strong nervous sensation crawling up the back of his neck, as well as a small, nagging voice trying to tell him that he should let the DFG aid in the search for Shawn, because that's what good cops did—they followed protocol, and called for backup when needed. The odd part about wanting to ignore such a "voice" was that this idea didn't sit right with him, possibly because the rangers couldn't keep track of one of their own on their own land. "What about these supposed poachers? I shouldn't leave stones unturned just because we stumbled over a body on the way."

Henry stared bug-eyed at Lassiter, not completely sure of what to make of this "new side" of the detective. He knew for sure he didn't like it, but was less sure why.

Lassiter frowned. "Did you hear what I said earlier, about not wandering off alone? I know you're a tough guy, Henry, way tougher than your son, and I know you can take care of yourself, but this isn't a game. When I said I would help you, I meant it"—he sighed heavily and finally turned to look Henry in the eyes—"not just because I want your help. Shawn's certainly in a pain in the ass but I don't want to see him get hurt. Even when he's stupid enough to walk right into it."

Henry nodded. They'd already had a much more heated variation of this conversation before but he could tell Carlton wasn't finished.

"You didn't see the body," Carlton continued, holding Henry's gaze. "You weren't close enough. His throat was cut in a long perfect line. No hesitation marks. I'd wager a guess that the blade used was a machete or hunting knife with at least a ten inch blade." He paused, wiping away a new sheen of sweat from his temples. "So, as much as you'd like to ditch me—and I'm sure you have your reasons,"—Carlton narrowed his eyes and frowned—"just stop it. It's not a good idea in the first place, and even less with some killer like that on the loose."

Henry was quiet for a few minutes, stewing over Lassiter's words. Lassiter was right, but he was also sick with the flu. Yet, splitting up with this much ground to cover could be foolish, especially with spotty cell reception at best. The desperate notion was likely a product of his "emotionally compromised" self, he considered while rolling his eyes. Yes, he was very single-minded at the moment—finding Shawn was his number one goal. The second goal was getting Shawn out of the park, and the third getting Shawn either to a hospital or back to his house, depending on which Shawn needed more.

In spite of this, he was still more than partially distracted by Lassiter's sickness and his neediness to help. They weren't partners, not really, and they certainly weren't friends. They were men who could barely stand each other, Henry reflected with a twinge. He had wanted to get rid of the detective and continue on his own—and he tried to do it. But it was stupid, and less for the reasons Lassiter had said. They were partners, and they had to watch each others' backs. Lassiter, as sick as he was, had been up for the challenge, so why hadn't he?

_Been there, done that?_ Henry thought wryly.

They entered a small clearing and Henry stopped to check his map. "Drink some water," he told Carlton, who had also stopped to lean against a tree. Carlton's face was closer to red than it had been an hour or so ago, but the resolve in his eyes told Henry he wasn't about to quit. Hopefully a loss of consciousness wouldn't decide that for him. "And eat some something."

Carlton grunted, stubborn to the last.

They were outside the area of the Los Priestos campgrounds by a good ten miles, and just far away enough from where they discovered the body that they could afford take a little rest. Henry had taken them a bit off the trails, zigging and zagging subtly enough that he was certain Carlton hadn't noticed. He felt it a necessary precaution, so they weren't discovered by the rangers attending to the corpse. Still, this small clearing wasn't on his map, so he had to wonder if he had been _too_ precautionary. He thought of himself as having a good sense of direction, so he didn't consider they were _lost_, at least, not yet. As he tried to decide if they should head Northwest or Northeast, he caught Lassiter bend forward suddenly, coughing forcefully.

Carlton didn't try to recover himself, not immediately, just let his eyes stream, just let the sneering voice enter his head, reminding him of all his failings, past and present. This episode was a bad repeat of the one from not long ago, one that he'd rather not suffer through again. But he caught himself, at least physically, before he fell to his knees. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, annoyed at the mucus which kept coming, even at his touch. It wasn't safe, to have these vulnerable moments where he couldn't control his body because he was so ill. In spite of the coughing and the streaming eyes, Lassiter's mouth upturned in a grim smile. He should have let Spencer abandon him back there, with the corpse. When he was like this, he was little more than a liability, wasn't he?

Henry took a few steps towards him and waited, listening to the cough. It was just getting worse, he thought. Carefully, he set his hand on Lassiter's shaking back.

Carlton's throat was too raw for a proper comment, but he stood upright at Henry's concern, pressing back against the tree, his eyes still wet. His chest heaved with exertion. Mucus fell from his lips in drool which he was quick to wipe away with the back of hand. He tried to ignore Henry's cringe. This flu was upon him only to add insult to injury, to cause him to feel weak—and not just physically. "I'm a distraction," he finally choked out to Henry. He blinked, trying to scrutinize Henry's unreadable expression.

"There's a killer out there," Henry told him, echoing his own earlier words. "I thought we're in this together?"

One corner of Lassiter's mouth turned up. For a moment.

Henry slapped a bottle of water into the detective's hand and the journey resumed. They were through the clearing in less than five minutes. Lassiter trailed behind at first, guzzling the water. Some loosened mucus slid down his throat, but he still felt the catch, and dug into a pocket for a lozenge. He watched Henry veer to the left, disappearing into more trees, but didn't hurry to catch up.

Carlton had never been a man to consider nature beautiful; he was rather indifferent to both the city and country living, with the exception of finding true country dwellers of the hillbilly, hippie variety, whether it was true or not. The only "nature" he liked was the dust covered memories of Old Sonora, a manufactured Old West tourist trap. Still . . . and it was probably his sickness, there was something he couldn't place about Los Padres—perhaps its sprawling expansiveness—that was almost less ugly than the yellow lined parking lot and the concrete walls of the SBPD, something almost . . . comforting.

Carlton shook his head hard to clear away his disgust. No way, he was obviously too sick to be out here if he was thinking like that. If he didn't watch himself like a hawk, he might wind up being _friendly_ with both Spencers by the end of this.

That was . . . oh. That was not even a possibility if Shawn . . . Carlton frowned and ran a hand over his face. Thinking about Shawn without looking through a screen of anger or annoyance, or without sneering about what the incompetent idiot got himself into now was too dangerous, because he'd meant what he reiterated to Henry earlier. There were few—and he could count them on one hand—real people that he wished would seriously die horrible, violent deaths . . . and Spencer wasn't one of them. Carlton sighed.

Though it was probably a useless gesture, Carlton pulled his phone out and dialed Spencer's number. The call transferred immediately to voice mail. Unable to help himself, he left Shawn a brief, gruff message. "You better be not answering your phone for a damn good reason, Spencer," he growled, slipping the phone back into his backpack. Entering the trees, following Henry's footsteps, Carlton navigated his way down a gentle hill and back up another steeper one. Reaching the top, he paused, realizing he could no longer hear the steady pace of Henry's footsteps. He looked around, thinking he had a decent view from the top of the hill, but couldn't get a read on where Henry could have gone.

Annoyance collected on the roof of his mouth almost to the point of pain. The bastard had ditched him after all that! "Spencer!" he called angrily, moving slowly down the hill, keeping his eyes peeled for the older man. "Spence—"

A sharp rustling ahead of him, hidden in yet another twisting copse, interrupted him. Carlton swallowed hard. So far, they hadn't encountered any large wild animals, nothing bigger than the native birds which flew over their heads and kept to themselves. And maybe some squirrels, which he had pretended not to see. At full strength, Carlton liked to think he could handle himself if faced with a bear or a mountain lion—even if with more flight than fight. Twigs snapped loudly and the rustling continued, but, at least from here, Carlton couldn't hear any growling or chomping so he kept moving toward the sound.

"Henry?" he called, more quietly this time.

Whatever he'd thought about the forest he took back—deafening silence such as this was no comfort, this absence of human voices, all but his own. He hadn't thought about it much before, probably because the silence was broken up by his and Henry's conversations and their even more frequent arguments. Lassiter reached the thicket and paused, trying for response one more time, his voice little higher than a raspy whisper. "Spencer?"

A moan. With a sucker punch of relief, Lassiter pushed through to a clearing hardly bigger than twenty feet across. Relief, it wasn't the right thing, he told himself, not when he saw Henry, sprawled out on his back in the leaves, the presence of an ugly red fist-shaped bruise forming on his chin. Henry's eyes were closed. His ball cap had been knocked off and lay a few feet from his head. "Jesus Christ," Lassiter muttered, squatting down to check for a pulse. His heart beat loudly in his ears as his mind raced to supply him with questions. What had happened? How? Why?

Henry moaned again but didn't open his eyes. Lassiter assessed Henry's vitals and wondered if it would be safe to move him; if it came to it, he figured he could put the older man in a fireman's hold and take him . . . where? He sighed at another unhelpful question.

Lightly, he slapped Henry's face. "Spencer? Spencer? You with me?"

Other than the bruise on his chin, Henry looked okay. But, Lassiter noticed with sudden apprehension, Henry's backpack with missing. Whoever did this might still be close by. Actually, that was more than likely. He slid an arm around Henry's upper back and tried to get him to sit up. Henry wasn't more than dead weight in his unconsciousness, but Lassiter figured he might as well try to do something. He didn't know these woods and didn't want to risk taking more than a few steps away from Henry in any direction, and since his enemy might have the advantage—definitely did, he begrudgingly admitted—he resolved to stick close to Henry. He couldn't help but wonder how someone, probably a big guy, he speculated, managed to get the drop on Henry. And even worse, how he had gone about it so stealthily. Lassiter hadn't been that far behind Henry, and yet, he hadn't heard Henry call out, in either fear or pain. He hadn't even heard the attack—no, just the aftermath.

Carlton's skin prickled. The loud rustling, that must have been the attacker ripping the backpack from Henry's shoulders. Then . . . it was possible he was long gone, having gotten what he wanted. Carlton stopped trying to get Henry to sit up, leaving him in a half slumped sitting position. He got to his feet and pulled his Glock from his holster, aiming it. He turned slowly in a circle, trying to see if he could see anything or anyone, and if so, if they might need shooting. He repeated his motions, stepping just those few steps from Henry, but couldn't discern anything out of the ordinary.

Yet, something was. Or had been. Without holstering his weapon, he turned back to Henry, renewing his halfhearted efforts to bring the man back to consciousness. It was difficult with the gun in one hand, but he wanted to be ready if he needed to use it. But after ten minutes with no results, and only the eerie silence around them, he put it away. "Come on, Henry," he entreated, "it's time to wake the hell up." He also glared, trying to appeal to Henry's rationality. "This isn't the time for a nap!"

He contemplated splashing Henry's face with water but didn't want to waste it. He didn't have any smelling salts in his pack, nor anything like a sweaty, smelly gym sock to hold under Henry's nose. Maybe . . . he sighed, maybe it was time to call for that backup both he and Henry had initially scoffed at bringing in. But if Spencer had a head injury and it was serious, it was probably best they both admit it was time to throw in the towel. Lassiter retrieved his cell phone from his backpack and dialed the rangers' station. As he considered a good bullshit story, the best he could come up with hope to polish to shine while he waited for them to arrive, he missed the quiet rustling behind him.

When the line picked up, Lassiter pinched the bridge of his nose and began. "This is Head Detective Lassiter of the Santa Barbara Police Department—"

These were the only coherent words he got out before the hard blow to his back and neck, an action meant to startle him and cause him to drop the phone. He did, too shocked for the few seconds he had to cry out. The phone hit Henry's chest and bounced, but there wasn't a second to spare for wondering if it was still on or now off. Lassiter, on his knees on the ground next to Henry, half twisted towards his attacker as the man's balled up fist slammed him square on the chin. Lassiter's straggled cry broke in his own ears as he fell across Henry's legs, out cold before he landed.


	10. Chapter 10: Lost And There's Nothing

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: Here's another update (so soon)! This chapter's quite a bit longer than any previous chapters, but I didn't want to break it up into two separate chapters instead. Hope you enjoy reading and many, many thanks for the continued support, encouragement, reviews and favorites! I'm especially appreciative to still have readers and reviewers after not updating regularly as some others do.

Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated! Thanks! :)

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**Chapter Ten: Are You Telling Me It's Over, Disintegrating, Lost And There's Nothing I Can Do?**

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Henry groaned, coming to. He was seated on the hard wooden floor of a cabin. He pushed his legs out, aware of a hard square or oblong wooden post pressing into his shoulders. Aware also that he couldn't moved his hands—they seemed to be secured behind the post. Opening his eyes, he saw that he was not here alone, and the memory of what had occurred outside came back in a flood. He leaned his head against the post to adjust to the reentry of images.

He cursed himself for letting his guard down, for assuming the subtle noises he'd heard behind him were nothing more than his reluctant partner catching up. If he was honest with himself, Henry knew that he'd only been half listening to Lassiter when he'd been blubbering on about a killer in the area. No. Really, he had mostly ignored the warning completely because he knew he could take care of himself as he had done on the force in the years before he was assigned a partner. A watchdog.

Henry's head ached. He moaned under his breath. That wasn't quite right—he wasn't a lone wolf on the force, never had been. His police department was his second family, and family took care of one another—even the most stubborn, pig-headed among them.

It was stupid, the attack, but maybe he was just easy prey. He'd turned around at a suspicious snap of twig and ran directly into a knobby fist too small too be Carlton's, but still a fierce one with power and muscle behind it. And . . . desperation? Henry closed his eyes, trying to dig through the layers of blurred images, the actions behind, well, the actions against him. All he knew for sure was that he must be out of shape to go down after just one punch, that, and the inability to clear his head and get back up. No. No, he'd just blacked out after that, shortly after registering that his fall was broken by his lumpy hiking pack.

Henry scanned the small cabin, really not more than a crude shack with two raised screened windows, one to the left and one to the right of where they were seated. The windows were the only source of light, but the interior itself wasn't dark. Still, it must be decent shelter for the solitary—and likely mentally unstable—survivalist who had knocked them out. At least, Henry was guessing that that was who they might be in the presence of, a man with some kind of ex-military or government training, a man who stockpiled bottled water and non-perishables in quantities of one expecting a recent apocalypse. The shelves of the cabin's back wall were stocked floor to ceiling with such things, including weapons like hunting knives and camping gear such as lanterns, propane grills and rain ponchos. And those were only what Henry could make out. Sure, maybe the guy was just a camping enthusiast . . . who apparently liked to "collect" packs and gear from other hikers, such as themselves . . . but he wasn't feeling optimistic enough to give him that. Henry was glad Carlton had his back to that wall, though at the moment he wouldn't have minded getting his hands on a hunting knife or a rifle.

Carlton was still out cold, his arms secured to the post behind him, his head and shoulders slumped forward as much as the ropes around his chest would allow. Raising his eyebrows, Henry checked his own chest for additional ropes but found none. Maybe there was an advantage to being thought of as "easy prey", Henry considered ruefully. Their feet hadn't been bound, and since the distance between the two posts had their shoes nearly touching sole to sole when fully stretched out, Henry found he could kick Lassiter's shins and ankles.

Which he started experimenting with out of concern for the detective's lack of response to his name. Their captor hadn't visited them since the phantom attack and seemed to not care if they wanted to yell as loud as they could. "Carlton! Wake up! Carlton!"

Gritting his teeth, Henry lashed the toe of his sneaker at Lassiter's ankle, then at his calf, continuing the assault and battery until he heard Carlton groan. Henry leaned back, panting.

Carlton moved his head upward enough for Henry to see an ugly fist shaped bruise on his chin. He wondered stupidly for a moment if they matched, not that he had a desire to look in a mirror. Seeing Carlton's face was enough of a harsh reality. The detective tilted his head back against the pole as if trying to catch his breath.

"Carlton!" Henry barked again. He cursed, annoyed that Lassiter had not opened his eyes. He launched another attack at the detective's legs, kicking hard enough to leave bruises.

Lassiter's eyes flew open. He struggled to get his bearings in those few seconds and only managed, out of self-protection, to yank his knees up towards his chest, though it was a further uncomfortable position after he discovered he couldn't move his wrists or bend his elbows. The only thing he could do was glare at Henry. "What the hell, Spencer?" he yelled, sounding more emotionally than physically hurt, and not even as angry as Henry wished he would be. "What's going on?" He narrowed his eyes. "You look like shit, old man."

Henry couldn't help himself, a bemused smile came to his lips.

"What's so funny?" Lassiter demanded, sounding suspicious.

"Nothing," Henry answered, speaking the truth.

Lassiter started to press Henry for a better answer but froze at the sound of a man's voice, unfamiliar and guttural, coming from just outside the cabin. He was facing the door and could see that it was closed, if not locked, but he could hear the voice filtering in from either under the door crack or through the high windows.

Henry nodded, hearing the voice, as if vindicated that the man was indeed unstable.

"Cops have to be stopped, if he's a cop he's got to be stopped, stop him stop him stop him," the man was saying over and over, probably talking to himself. He paused every now and then to spit. "Stop cops stop cops stop them." It sounded like he might be doing landscaping of some kind—or digging. "I stopped him I stopped him I stopped him—"

"You're going to get at least ten years for assault!" Lassiter yelled at the door, wincing as his own voice reverberated on his pounding head.

"What the hell are you thinking?" Henry spat at him, his own voice several decibels lower. He thought it the worst possible idea to antagonize their attacker, especially one whose state of mind was obviously compromised. "Shut your goddamn mouth before that crazy old guy turns his shotgun on us!" Since the man didn't burst in after Lassiter's yell, Henry hoped the man hadn't heard.

Lassiter scowled. He _wanted_ to tell that man, right to his face, that he was going to get the death penalty for kidnapping a cop, but maybe he should wait until the hillbilly mental case was locked up in handcuffs.

"Yeah, that's a better idea," Henry sneered at him. At Lassiter's blank look, Henry told him. "You've been muttering things aloud, didn't you know?" It was a good enough lie that Henry used just for a reaction.

For a few seconds, Lassiter looked worried, but then he rolled his eyes. "So you've got more ammunition you can use against me, have you?" he stated, pressing his lips into a tight line.

"Carlton," Henry began. He was too tired for this, and his head and face hurt too much to take more of a warning tone with the Head Detective. Besides, what more could he say that might get through to flu-addled, angry and hurt man?

Whatever bound Carlton's wrists behind him to the pole seemed to have the consistency of barbed wire. It kept him from struggling too much to test the bindings, at least at first, at least until Henry shot him down with that theory.

"My guess is twine," the older man told him, raising an eyebrow. "What makes you think yours is different?"

"It freaking hurts," Lassiter muttered under his breath, giving his bindings a tug. He inhaled sharply. Maybe it was all tied—he shook his head at himself—_connected_ to his having the flu, feeling pain at a different level than Henry was. Or maybe their captor had actually used barbed wire on his wrists. He was younger and more physically fit than Henry, never mind that he was sick today (and that Henry might be a juicer of the Speed variety). Their attacker could have looked at him as more of a threat. Then again . . . what little he'd heard of the muttering man made him think that the man was not working with all of his mental capabilities. He sagged against the post. "It hurts," he repeated sullenly.

"What hurts?"

"Forget it," Lassiter muttered back. He knew he wasn't going to win this argument. It wasn't as if either of them could see the other's wrists to know which one was a liar, but he was just too tired to hear Henry say that he was right. "Twine. Whatever you say."

He cleared his throat and tried to look around the cabin but he couldn't turn his head to see behind him. "Is Shawn . . . is he here?"

Henry sighed, feeling his chest tighten. "No. We'd never get that lucky."

"I doubt it even matters," Lassiter muttered. He was quickly tiring himself out with all his struggling, getting himself nowhere fast.

"What do you mean?" Henry raised an eyebrow, curious despite his pain.

"After I found you, when I couldn't wake you up . . . I called the DFG."

He wasn't looking at Henry, just looking down at the ropes around his chest. He heard Henry curse and cut in. "What do you want me to say? That my cop instincts took over—instincts I've been ignoring this whole time for your benefit?"

"Not yours, too, Detective?" Henry sneered.

Lassiter raised his eyes to Henry's. "You were out cold, okay? I started thinking it could be a serious head injury, I . . ." He closed his mouth before letting it slip that he'd been unnerved by the prospect of navigating the park himself, especially when he couldn't completely trust his own judgment to pick the right direction to either go forward or back. He could read a map but he'd suspected Henry had taken them off the only map they had in their possession, the sadly simplistic one he'd taken from Shawn's belongings in the Psych office. "I made a decision that it would be better for you, and for Shawn, to bring in professional help, trained rangers and hikers with the right equipment and athleticism to make it through the thicker paths and through the night. If we're it for a rescue, your son has pretty sad chances."

"I would have managed!" Henry snapped, regretting it for the pounding it caused behind his eyes.

"Yeah, well, maybe," Lassiter shot back. "But I didn't think there was another option in that moment." He frowned. "I don't know if the call even went through."

Fuming, Henry tried to swallow the rest of his rage. Yelling at Carlton over this was about as productive as Carlton struggling to break his ropes—situations both unlikely to be resolved. He tried to put himself in Carlton's place, but he couldn't shake the notion of just slapping Lassiter awake and telling him to walk it off, that they were losing daylight. In fact, all he could think of was, if the shoe had been on the other foot, of how much he would have stuck it to the detective for getting caught in the first place.

Henry leaned his head against the post again, uneasy for the first time since waking up here and realizing he was bound. This had less to do with the fact that the light beyond this little shack was draining out of the afternoon at a pace too fast for him to feel peace with. And it had even less to do with the fact that, beyond Carlton on the other side of the cabin, Henry could make of a neat little collection of what could only be the smashed remains of cell phones and radios. He gulped at that but kept the discovery to himself for now.

He was most uneasy, he assumed, because he thought it entirely unreasonable for himself to have an angry reaction to Carlton's trying to call for help. What Carlton had said made sense—he had been trying to do what was best for the Spencers, and that was getting medical attention for Henry and calling in the wilderness professionals and possibly experienced volunteers to do a wider search for his son. Henry considered that Lassiter could have been able to spin the story either way—admitting to his firsthand knowledge or constructing some really good lie for having such information.

But it seemed that Lassiter was willing to put his duty to serve and protect civilians above his own reputation and agenda. Quietly he asked, "What do you mean, you don't think it worked?"

Lassiter shrugged, huffing his annoyance out the corner of his mouth. It was impossible not to be reminded that he was tightly restrained but he hated to think about it. Any movement reminded him, as did staying perfectly still. "He attacked me before I had a chance to say more than my name and title. He hit my back with what felt like a walking stick and I dropped the phone." Lassiter's cheeks colored with embarrassment indiscernible from his already flushed complexion. "Before I could get up or turn around, he hit me in the face. And I assume I passed out because I don't remember anything else."

Even sick with the flu, Carlton could take more hits before losing consciousness. Henry frowned. He was definitely out of shape.

"And now we're both in trouble." Lassiter shook his head. "It's too bad you didn't have some power of premonition you could have passed to your son."

Henry gave Lassiter an incredulous look. "So I could have seen that maniac coming from a mile away?"

"Right."

Henry's mouth twitched. Lassiter's statements were utterly devoid of mockery or snideness, making Henry wonder if he might have a concussion, which he quickly dismissed. He felt a biting argument coming for him about how rusty he was for not tapping into his own cop training, not so dormant as he made seem. He could hear himself screaming back that if Lassiter hadn't been so sick maybe he could have used his _sharper_ cop instincts to detect the threat. Henry clamped his mouth shut, determined to not let such a nasty thing start. Lassiter was right, they were in enough trouble right now and didn't need to be at odds with each other too.

Carlton was watching Henry, waiting for him to turn their unfortunate situation around on him—surely this was all his fault, somehow. Perhaps, if he hadn't found the ranger's body, or if he'd just let Henry go on alone, or any other number of good reasons. In the silence, he tried his ropes over and over and considered what possessed their attacker to knock them out and then drag them off to this cabin—and if he was working alone. He could understand the robbery aspect—the man either wanted or needed their supplies, but why not just take their packs and then disappear? He hadn't gotten a good look at their abductor so he had no idea if the man was up to literally carrying off two men their size. Did the man think they would try to find him when they woke up? Lassiter shook his head gingerly, trying not to rattle it too much. His back and neck ached from the hit he'd taken there, and he felt a cut on the side of his face from where he must have landed when he fell. Whatever was going on just didn't make sense, not to him. He leaned his head back against the post, closing his eyes again.

Seconds later, Henry said, "Don't make me kick you again." Lassiter opened one eye. "I will."

Carlton glared at him again. "Where do you think we are?"

It sounded like a challenge, but Henry refused to bite, even if it was an innocuous question. Did he even want to know the answer? Instead, he threw out a question of his own, hoping to encourage Lassiter's anger—a tactic that would keep him engaged and, with any luck, awake.

"What did you come to my house today for?"

Lassiter frowned incredulously. "Now? _Now_ you want me to talk to you?"

"You're the one who obviously wanted to talk to me," Henry retorted. "Dropping by, unannounced."

"I more than paid for it, didn't I?" Lassiter's scowl returned.

Henry ignored the dig, knowing it still needed to be addressed, but he couldn't help but be curious. "You offered to come. Why did you?"

"I told you why. Possible missing civilian in my jurisdiction."

"Not possible missing—" Henry broke off with a huff. "Not even in your jurisdiction. You don't even like Shawn."

"You've got one note, Spencer." Lassiter sneered. "He's not . . . a total loss of a human being," he admitted, surprising Henry. After that, he fell silent.

Henry studied him, then tried again, more gently than before, to get Lassiter to talk. "I'm all ears, tell me what's on your mind."

Lassiter stared back, suspicious.

"Look, we're both tied up, here. I don't know where we are any more than you do. I bet he took any weapons we had, our cellphones, your first aid kit and our supplies. We might be here until he decides to come back for us."

"Such an appealing thought. We should try to get untied, or discuss why we were brought here and who the hell he is and what he wants," Lassiter went on before Henry could interrupt. He struggled again with the twine, but his bindings only seemed to tighten. He fell back, stifling his groans. "This guy could be a link to the criminals Shawn stumbled upon."

"I don't—I don't want to think about Shawn this second," Henry cut in angrily. "My hands are tied to a freaking post. I can't get to him. Distract me," he ordered.

Lassiter stared back at him, going silent again. His mind wandered, first through the graveyard of his and the elder Spencer's search, the first time through the woods, under his thoughts strayed back to her, back to the bombed out villages and dilapidating townships that she'd left him with as they grew apart—rather, as she grew apart from him. The ache that he always tried to bury regarding his ex-wife throbbed behind his ribs constantly, reminding him that he was not all right, that he might not ever be all right, and she was doing her worst from inside his body to make certain of it. Lassiter pulled his mouth into a tight line. "She's killing me," he muttered. "I wanted to know—from you—just how I'm supposed to survive." Lassiter sighed. "I had nowhere else to go—it was talk to you or . . . no, that was basically the only option left."

Henry heard Lassiter's words reach him as half-speak, guessing that the detective had already begun the conversation—likely much earlier, back in his driveway—in his head before speaking aloud. Because of it, Henry wasn't entirely sure what was being asked of him.

"I'm glad you thought of me to come to first," Henry commented dryly, raising an eyebrow. Lassiter didn't deny it, shifting about uncomfortably. Henry guessed that he was clenching his fists by the way the vein in his neck popped. He decided to change the subject. "Killing you?" he repeated. "What do you mean, who is she?"

"Who _was_ she," Lassiter corrected. "I guess I really had no idea after all. Who she was, what she wanted, how much it was going to sting when she ripped my heart out."

Henry waited, a little puzzled; he truthfully hadn't guessed the scale of the detective's pain—or desperation, but it wasn't hard to believe he was wrecked over a woman. In all his years of meeting, courting and romancing women, he himself still found their sex to be an unsolved mystery.

"Not just sting," Lassiter continued, studying the cabin's dusty floor. "Like a bee sting or a pinch—more like acid on the whole of my skin, burning through me, into me." He paused again as if to gather thoughts, and for a few seconds, Henry was reminded of Shawn, or his brother, Jack, in some fix and struggling for air. The detective looked so young in those moments, young enough to have never been so deeply in love before. Henry knew that look—and not just because of his troublesome family; he'd seen that look in the mirror, following his split from Maddie.

It was because, he'd initially told himself, he'd married her. Because he'd never loved any woman enough before her to marry, to want to settle down with, have a family. Who was she, indeed.

"It's not just . . . the financial crap is a pain in the neck, a crippling pain," Lassiter amended slowly, "but . . . it's just money. Assets. I can make more of that, in spite of her greedy bloodletting hedonistic devil lawyers. No alimony—no children." Lassiter silently cursed that his hands were bound behind him; he'd clenched his fists in place of pressing his palms against his face. _No children, _his voice had frayed; what money he _wouldn't_ have minded handing over to her, if only there had been . . . even just one other in the equation. He hoped that Henry had missed this entirely, would not remind him that it wasn't too late; or worse, tell him it was.

Henry was starting to get the gist. He nodded, though he noticed Lassiter had slumped, already looking defeated. "Your ex? Is that why you wanted to talk to me?"

Carlton bit his lip, a gesture Henry had never seen the detective do before—a nervous gesture. Carlton nodded. "You're knowledgable. You have the life experience. You're still . . ." He broke off, not able to complete the sentence.

"I'm still what?" Henry pressed.

Lassiter shook his head. "Nothing. Nothing."

Henry squinted at him, understanding flooding him so strongly he could taste it, taste it like the juices of a well-cooked steak. He scoffed, maybe he was just that hungry. "Carlton," he began, "you ever heard that saying about loving something and letting it go?"

Lassiter looked back, wary. "Sure."

"Well, let me give you a little advice. It's crap, but it's also pretty much the simplest, most honest truth you will ever get."

"Better than all relationships and romances ending in utter despair, death for the lucky?"

"Shut your extremely cynical pie hole for a second," Henry shot back. "This is the truth: she isn't coming back. You lost her, for whatever good or bad reason, she is lost to you. Hardest thing to come to terms with is that she no longer loves you the way you love her—still love her. Holding on to her is just going to end up hurting you—hurting your relationships with other people, professional, romantic, familial—"

"I don't have that last one at all," Lassiter interrupted. "The second one is even iffy."

Henry gave him a look that he often gave Shawn when he was being ridiculous and unhelpful. Strangely enough, it worked enough to make Lassiter stop talking. The younger man waited, though not expectantly, for Henry to continue.

"Some people . . . some women, we can't love forever. Doesn't mean we don't try, but doesn't mean it's good for us in the end. Letting go—it's a lifelong process for the best-worst-most failed relationships of ours. It's comparable to grieving—it's damn hard to say you don't love someone you swore you would always love."

Lassiter was silent, trying to take it all in. He felt Henry was telling him what he already knew, but he really had to hear it from someone who knew—who was, in some ways, also still in love with his ex-wife despite many, many, many years divorced, apart. "Lifelong—grieving," he muttered.

"So, it's pretty much that despair thing you mentioned, but instead of it being 'all', it's just . . . it's just the first one that mattered the most to you."

"To you," Lassiter muttered.

Henry raised an eyebrow. "Is repeating aloud everything I say helping you any?"

"Maybe," Lassiter admitted. For a few seconds, he fidgeted with his feet, eventually relaxing his legs against the floor. Looking away, he asked, "Do you ever . . . did you ever . . . get over it?"

"Get over it?" Henry repeated. "You mean, did I deal with it or did I move on?"

Lassiter shrugged, getting an unwelcome reminder that his head still ached and his wrists were still tightly bound. "Both."

"Look, the financial part of it—splitting the assets, deciding who gets what, alimony—and the petty stuff, the whosey-what's-its of dishes, photographs, plants, all that nonsense—it gets to you, but eventually, it gets worked out. Maybe in the end, you aren't happy with what you ended up with, you wanted more, less, or would have given anything to work things out so it would have never come to this—but even if you had to settle, or compromise, it ends. That's the easiest part of the whole thing, unless the two of you really hate each other's guts."

Carlton swallowed, pressing his back against the post.

Henry blew out a breath. "There were plenty of times, believe me, that I thought I hated Maddie and could never forgive her for all that she put me and Shawn through." He hesitated a moment before continuing. "Shawn really didn't understand the whole thing, and he didn't even make his peace with it until a few years ago. For whatever it's worth, Carlton, I hope it doesn't take you more than fifteen years to make your peace with your divorce."

Lassiter was silent, thinking it over. He had let her go despite wanting to hold on to her and keep her close when she wanted nothing more than to be free. "I guess it was stupid to think it was all over, in that one moment I said goodbye to her," he said bitterly.

Henry shook his head. "Not stupid, Carlton. Misguided, possibly, but really, how were you supposed to know?" He gave Carlton a tight nod. "We're alike in that way, old man. Not to mention we both wanted our wives to stay when they didn't want us."

Carlton frowned, but not at Henry or his words, just at his own memories. "I swear, I would have given her the world. At least, I thought I would, back when we first got married."

Henry snorted, but there was an amused crinkle around both eyes. "In the beginning, it's so easy," he mused, thinking of Maddie on their wedding day—her long hair pulled back in a braid around her head, her pristine white dress, the look of love and happiness written all over her smooth face. Himself, dressed in a tux with a lot more hair, he couldn't stop smiling. Holding her hands, making promises he was sure they would keep till death do them part. Henry looked Carlton in the eyes. "We kept our promises but they couldn't. But . . . I don't know. Even if I had known way back then that something more"—Henry's mouth twisted bitterly—"_important _was beckoning to her, I still would have wanted to try. I still would have married her."

Carlton remained silent, letting this, too, sink in. After a short time, he found himself nodding. If there had been the briefest of hesitations back then, when the two of them had been considering marriage, it had not come from his side. He was young and stupid and completely in love with Victoria—a woman, apparently in Henry's words, who could have had something more _important_ than their love story appearing on her horizon. But he shook his head. "Important" or not, he would never be blameless; it had taken both of them to drive each other apart. He sighed. "So . . . I should just let her take whatever she wants . . . just _surrender_?"

Henry shrugged as much as his bound arms would allow. "You have to remember, there are no winners in this game. Just two losers. That's what divorce is, a loser's game. You both should be content you don't have any kids to experience the fallout—be causalities of war." Henry hurried on when he saw Carlton's face close up; they'd already been down the road about discussing children, and it was an ugly, briar filled path. "Honestly, I don't know your ex-wife, so I can't say what could possess her to want to cut into you any way she can." He didn't add that he could easily guess her motives, just because it would be mean and too easy to make educated guesses. After all, he did _know_ Carlton, to a certain degree. "Maybe it's her last ditch effort, to make sure you know it's all over with. Maybe she's just being cruel because she wants to get back at you. Or maybe she just wants to . . ." He frowned, thinking of Maddie, thinking of the way she told him point blank she didn't want the house.

"What? Spencer, what?" Lassiter asked, a little ashamed he'd been hanging on Henry's every word.

"Maybe she just wants to make the cleanest break she can. So she can use whatever's left of the past—mostly the financial crap—to pave the way to a new present." He made a little noise in his throat, a kind of wounded sound. "Madeleine wanted nothing to do with assets and investments we'd owned, like the house, but she made sure I paid her her fair share. And then she was just gone. Gone."

_Gone. Just gone._ What a concept . . . he could get used to, Carlton thought, surprising himself.

Henry let out a long sigh. "Do yourself a favor and try not to make all the same mistakes I did, old man. You've already tried to fight—fight for her, fight to get her back, fight to start from square one. But you've already lost the fight. Lost the war. I mean, don't let her just have everything she wants in the divorce, especially if you give enough of a crap about it to want to hold onto it, for whatever personal reason. After all, why let her take something utterly worthless to her but which has sentimental value to you?" He quirked an eyebrow, unable to imagine such an object in Lassiter's case, but decided it was a good enough example not be elaborated upon. "That said, and to answer your question about 'surrendering' from earlier, yes, if she's so goddamned adamant about picking another petty fight with you over a bunch of stupid shit, let her have whatever she wants that can be replaced."

"So . . . not my heart," Carlton murmured.

"Then salvage what you can, and start to move on," Henry continued, pretending he hadn't heard Carlton's comment about his broken heart. "You're already in the grieving stages, so the first step is to let that go. I'd tell you to man up and just get over it, but hell, it takes time." He shook his head and added, almost just to himself, "Love is stupid. But we all keep falling for it."

Henry studied Carlton as he thought through what had been said. After a few minutes he asked, "Did that help you? All my bitter wisdom?"

Lassiter smiled, a genuine gesture. "Yeah. Yeah, uh . . . thanks, Spencer."

Henry nodded. "Can I ask you something?"

"What?"

"Would you take her back? Would you start over if with her if there was the slightest chance of getting it to work this time around?"

Carlton laughed, surprising himself. If the day had been younger, and if he had still been standing in Henry's driveway with a heavy dose of cold medicine in his system, he knew he might have said yes. "After all this? No. It's not fair to myself to keep loving a woman who doesn't love me anymore, who stopped loving me way before I was ready for it."

Henry nodded again. He couldn't help but think of Maddie then and wonder if he could say the same thing. He was over her, but . . . He sighed. "I think if that's all settled then we should go back and address those questions you asked earlier—who is this guy, what does he want, and how we're going to get ourselves out of here, preferably before he comes back."

"I like the way you think, Spencer," Carlton offered. He actually felt lighter of spirit after listening to Henry, but they'd only cleared one roadblock. After they got out of here—if they did, if it was soon—they still had to find Shawn, stop poachers and catch a killer. Well, wasn't the hardest part over? Though, the flu might have mixed up his priorities.


	11. Chapter 11: Live on A Wing And A Prayer

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: Another update! Yay! Best way to spend a day off, writing. :) Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated! Thanks for reading! :)

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**Chapter Eleven: Some Say We Live On A Wing And A Prayer, And A Pocket Map **

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Not so much later, Lassiter's spirit lost its lightness, in part due to the fact that neither he nor Spencer could manage to get themselves loose. Their captor had left them alone and the sky looked to be losing all of its light. He cursed his overblown optimism at first and then later recognized it for the illusion that it was; while actually getting his darker feelings about his ex-wife out into the open, his problems regarding the situation with her were not to be solved when they were deep in the woods, literally tied down. Not to mention, they still had to keep up the search for Shawn, should they be able to get free.

"Stop struggling," Henry hissed for the seventieth-ish time, counting the individual beads of sweat on the detective's face. The cabin-shack itself was humid enough, hot enough for his own sweat to show through his clothing. But with Lassiter as sick as he was, Henry was growing worried Lassiter might pass out again, as he'd done once already back in the woods.

"How am I supposed to—?" Lassiter hissed back, again wrenching his shoulders to one side. His ropes only seemed to tighten, and he pressed his spine against the post in frustration. It was a vicious cycle.

"Work smarter," Henry chided. "Like me."

Lassiter tilted his head back, mockery on his tongue. "Like you," he repeated snidely. "Because you're getting so much further, rubbing your wrists raw trying to gain half an inch?"

"Why don't I just leave you here when I'm free?" Henry shot back. He gritted his teeth for losing his cool.

Carlton smiled darkly. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? You already tried to abandon me once." He strained against the ropes across his chest, ignoring the pain it caused his wrists, as if he could really get in Henry's face. "But now I wouldn't be able to follow you."

Henry muttered under his breath, then sighed. "Just stop it."

"You started it!"

Henry scowled for a few seconds but then his lips upturned. He laughed.

Carlton looked back suspiciously. He was too hot, too physically uncomfortable, and too angry to make sense of this. He had to wonder at Spencer breaking first; he was sure it would be him, as sick and messed up as he was.

"Jesus Christ," Henry muttered, still chuckling. "You really think I would do that? Leave you bound and injured with some crazy, heavily armed cop hater?" He couldn't help but smile at the ridiculousness of the argument: it was the old parent-kid trap, that threat of walking away and leaving the misbehaving child behind. It was an argument he'd had several times with Shawn, both as a child and as an adult. The latter was the most unsettling, Henry decided. The threat itself must be lost on Lassiter as he had no children—though he'd already been threatened by Henry in other ways several times today. He sighed again. "I thought we were a team?"

"Are we really?" Lassiter asked, his tone stranded between flat and distant. He came off a bit like a petulant child.

A bit like Shawn. The adult Shawn, mostly. Henry shook his head to himself.

"Carlton, now that I know the rest of your story, and have offered some crappy advice that I don't know what you'll do with, are you planning to hightail it back to Santa Barbara? My usefulness's suddenly over?"

Carlton frowned, searching Henry's presented blank face for answers. "What . . . what in the hell gave you that impression?" he finally asked. The thought had never even crossed his mind, leaving in the middle of some open investigation—woman trouble or not.

Henry nodded firmly. "That's what I thought. You want to stick this out."

"First we need to get out of here, Spencer," Lassiter growled.

"My point is, we are a team. Maybe we weren't before—and yes, it did cross my mind that I could ditch you back there after we found that body. But I'm not thinking like that anymore."

Lassiter raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"

Another smile cracked Henry's mouth. "It must be the bruise on the back of my head that's doing all the good thinking." He shot Lassiter a pointed look. "Or it might be the simple fact that you trusted me enough to follow me on this foolhardy misadventure."

"You mean I was desperate enough," Lassiter corrected. He'd stopped struggling, yet his pale cheeks turning pink with the heat of the stuffy shack. Or perhaps, from a fever. "And now look at us, we're in serious trouble. We have no phones, no backup, no weapons."

Henry studied the abundance of gear on the wall behind Lassiter's post. "Maybe not on us, not anymore, but I know where we'll be able to get a few of those things." He pursed his lips. "In this case, screw the backup. Even if cell reception was decent, or unless we can get our hands on a satellite phone, we can't expect anyone else to know where to look for us." Henry shook his head and looked towards one of the higher windows. He hated to think of his son, lost in the woods, at night, in some kind of danger, playing hunter captured by the prey.

"Screw backup," Lassiter muttered disbelievingly. "Were you ever really a cop, Spencer?"

Henry swallowed hard and refused the bait. "Who is going to come to our rescue, Lassiter? Vick? Your partner? What about Gus? Not even those park rangers you called can be counted on—one, because the call might not have gone through and two, how the hell will they know what direction _you_ supposedly went in pursuit of the suspect?"

Lassiter wished he had a free hand to wipe some of the sweat from his forehead and temples, and also a cold cloth to press to the back of his neck. He hadn't needed Henry to lay it out stone cold for him—he already knew they were in this alone, both the getting free, getting away and finding and saving Spencer's tail. Mentally he amended that to four parts, blaming the sweat in his eyes and the bump on the head for causing his vision to swim. "Guster couldn't find his way out of a paper bag. Fine," he admitted quietly, letting his eyes close. "You're right, I'm not. That's nothing new."

Henry huffed, partially miffed and strangely, partially amused; this could easily be a conversation he could be having with Shawn, some of that teen angst defeatism mixed together with the stubborn denial that the old man couldn't possibly be right all the time. Still, it was a state that looked good on neither adults—and was utterly intolerable on Lassiter, especially in his condition.

Henry lashed out a foot, the toe of his hiking boot sinking into the tender meat behind Carlton's knee. The desired result was immediate: Lassiter's eyes flew open, he let loose a string of curses, and pulled both legs out of Henry's reach.

"What the hell is your problem?" Lassiter screamed, as vicious as a pit bull trying to break his leash. He would have given anything to put his hands around Henry's throat.

"You were going to sleep. You can't go to sleep," Henry intoned. "You might have a concussion."

"I was resting my eyes, that's all!"

"_Right_. That's how it starts."

Lassiter grunted, his leg throbbing with new pain. His calves and shins already had bruises from Spencer's kicks, but somehow he'd allowed himself to relax. There was no way he could sleep now, even if he'd intended to, which he hadn't. Not . . . not really. But it had felt good to close his eyes and pretend, even just for a few seconds, that he was anywhere but here.

_Oh._ That thought alone was enough to scare him into wakefulness; it was a rare occurrence for him to want to choose to be out of the moment, no matter how dangerous or frightening any given scenario on the job could be. As a hostage in the cemetery, it was only when he felt the gun pressed against the back of his head that he wished himself away. And sure, there were more than a few times during the whole Victoria mess that he may have wished the whole thing was less messy, or was over or gone entirely, but up until the very last second that she'd walked out the door for good, he'd wanted to be there.

He stole a glance at Henry and caught the older man looking him over with obvious concern. He hadn't seen his own face for a while so there was no telling how bad he really looked. Plus, he knew Henry knew that Lassiter claimed to never close his eyes in public, not while other people were around, yet he also knew that he'd dozed off on the drive out here, and apparently had passed out earlier in the woods, and then Spencer had woken first to find him still unconscious. He didn't feel good, or well, and did want almost nothing more than to close his eyes and surrender to even five minutes worth of unconscious blackness. Almost nothing . . . getting out of here was far more important than an embarrassing abbreviated cat nap.

"So help me, Carlton!" Henry yelled. "Stay with me!"

Carlton looked at Henry with confusion; had he dozed off again? He had no memory of even closing his eyes this time.

Henry cursed under his breath; Lassiter was fading fast. He needed to step this plan up and get them out of here soon. He'd tugged his belt through its loops until the buckle was facing the pole, and had been using the sharper edges to saw through the ropes. It was tough work; his sweaty fingers kept slipping as he tried to bridge the gap between the buckle's space and his hands behind the pole, and his constant vigilance for Lassiter's fading health often took his focus away from his important task. They had no idea if their captor was planning to come back, or what he'd do to them if that happened.

There was already one body in the woods—and their captor could have been the one to dump it there. He may even be the killer. A chill moved through Henry. As scary as it was to be here, restrained as they were, it was much more terrifying to think they might be killed. If they were killed, no one would be left to help Shawn. Keeping an occasional eye on Lassiter, Henry bore down on cutting his ropes, sawing frantically, praying he was making a dent. As soon as he got his hands free, he could find a knife in that pile of stolen goods and turn Lassiter loose.

He hoped the detective could stand and walk on his own, maybe run, if they had to, because he didn't think he had it in him to carry Lassiter any great distance. Lassiter might have the flu but Henry'd been conked on the head too and might have a concussion as well. Yet, neither of them had thrown up yet, and Lassiter, for all his worrying behavior, didn't seem disoriented or amnesic. Sleepy, sure. Feverish, perhaps, but that had another cause.

"Don't look at me like that," Lassiter said with a frown.

"Like what?"

"Like you think I'm about to die. It's creepy."

Henry chuckled under his breath. "I can't believe you're telling me what's creepy. You, with your all planned out, whole end-of-the-world cannibalism and mating strategies."

"It's not creepy," Lassiter defended. "It's practical. You didn't make the list, by the way."

The door to the cabin opened, letting in more natural light, and their elusive captor walked inside, not acknowledging them in any way. He was a thin man about Shawn's height, Henry noted as he watched the man go to the wall of supplies at the back, picking up various things Henry couldn't make out. But while the man's body type resembled Lassiter's lanky form, this man lacked Lassiter's muscle tone—not to mention the fact that this man, with his grizzled appearance of shaggy white facial hair, long nails and well-worn clothing, must be over sixty and probably homeless. He smelled like dirt, and smoke, and blood, and rot—at least, this was what Henry got in the wave of odor as he went past. Still, he'd gotten the drop on both of them and managed to get them here. Henry frowned to hide his embarrassment. He must be getting old; Lassiter's excuse of the flu was a much better one.

Lassiter, with his back to the man, tried to look over his shoulder as much as his restraints would allow. It wasn't much; all he could really make out was a crop of white hair and a dirty baseball cap out of the corner of his eye as the man passed by. He caught Henry shaking his head in his direction, a subtle warning to not infuriate this man until—and if—they learned more. He gritted his teeth and shook his head back.

"Hey! Hey, you, you sick scum sucking bastard!" he yelled. "What do you want with us?"

"Carlton!" Henry hissed. "Shh!"

"You'll let us go if you know what's good for you!"

The man turned around. Henry gasped. He was holding a long-bladed hunting knife in his right hand. "Carlton, shut your face," he warned quietly. The piercing blue of each man's eyes warred a quick stare-down before Henry whispered, "Knife."

The man approached. His skin was tan, weathered by the elements. As he got closer, Henry noticed his eyes, also blue, seemed unfocused. Their captor stopped at Lassiter's post—and without warning, backhanded the detective with his left hand. Henry jumped, startled, watching Lassiter's head slam against the post.

Lassiter gasped, trying to decipher what hurt more in those few seconds of awareness—his cheek or the back of his head. He glanced at Henry, who looked just as startled as he was. He cursed under his breath, blinking his eyes furiously to avoid the sting of tears and dizziness of bumping his head in that tender spot again. Their captor knelt down next to him and placed the hunting knife against Lassiter's sternum, above the rope around his chest. "It isn't safe," he told them with the rasping of a long-time smoker, looking from Lassiter to Henry. He tapped Lassiter's sternum with the blade. "They'd take a man's home right out from underneath him."

Lassiter looked down at the blade and then back at Henry. "Do something," he mouthed.

Henry cleared his throat. "What do you mean, uh? I don't know you're name. Can you tell me your name? What do you mean, it's not safe?"

"It isn't safe out there," their captor repeated softly, looking outside at the fading light. "I have to make a fire. It's getting dark. There're cops out there. Cops who need to be stopped."

Lassiter glared at Henry, who shook his head again.

"And mountain lions," the man continued. "They don't like the fire, but I need to keep up with the light." He shook his head, moving the blade up a few centimeters towards Lassiter's throat, and then actually looked Lassiter in the eyes. "He was trying to get me to leave. But it isn't safe."

Carlton remained still, stone-faced even as the flat of the blade touched his bare skin. He felt, of all things, a sneeze working its way into his nose, but he knew he couldn't sneeze in this man's face no matter how justified it might be. He had been right—this man's mental state was unstable, volatile, enough to make him dangerous, maybe even a killer.

Henry beat him to the punch. "Are you talking about the park ranger? What did he do to you?" He didn't like what he was seeing, and tried to get the man's attention focused on him instead. "What did you do to him? Can you tell me your name?"

The man reached his free hand to pat Lassiter on the top of his head, causing Lassiter to flinch, and the blade found its way to his cheek. "You're darker than he was," he murmured. It could have been deception, the empty, childish look in the man's eyes as he regarded Lassiter, but Lassiter couldn't make out any true malicious intent—not even any intent at all. Still, there had to have been some intent to harm them when he came across them in the woods.

"Why did you bring us here?" Lassiter whispered, searching the man's eyes for any sign of lucidity, wondering if there had been any when the man slapped him.

"He was on the trail," the man offered, without further explanation. He moved the knife away from Lassiter and let his arm rest at his side, standing up. He didn't look at either of them, just straight out the door. "It just isn't safe out there."

"You need to let us go now," Lassiter ordered quietly. "This is insane. Untie me. Untie us."

Their captor looked at Henry. "I have to build a fire. It's getting dark. I have to kill the animals." Henry eyed the knife and then nodded. This man wasn't going to give them anything that made sense, and Henry would feel better once he was out of their sight. Their captor tipped his dirty hat at Henry and left. Henry realized with a jolt that that was _his_ hat. Was. He shook his head.

"He's gone," Lassiter informed him a few seconds later as the cabin door closed softly. "He reeked."

"Are you okay?" Henry asked. Carlton's cheek was bright red—an anomaly against his very pale skin—but the man had missed his mouth; his left hand was obviously not his dominant one.

Lassiter made a tsking noise, as if that was the stupidest question he'd ever heard. Then he sneezed. "I'm fine," he replied nasally after a moment. "You didn't think he was really going to cut me, did you?"

Henry shrugged against his bonds. "I honestly don't know what to think. Other than that guy isn't playing with a full deck."

"You think?" Carlton shot back. He could feel a bunch of angry words in his mouth, wanting to use them to tell Spencer off, berate him for his uselessness. He blew out a long, hot breath instead. No matter how much he might want it to be, it wasn't Henry's fault he'd just been slapped and held at knifepoint by some Grade-A homeless crazy. "Jesus. Do you think he killed that park ranger?"

"Maybe. He does have enough tools here. An arsenal," Henry stated. "Plus, he got the both of us with brute force."

Carlton shook his head slowly. "I think he got lucky. He surprised both of us; I barely had a chance to fight back before he got me too. It's pathetic, he's all sinew."

Henry sighed. "Well, at least we know that when we do get out of here, we can take him."

Carlton raised an eyebrow. "Do you think that might be soon?"

"I'm doing the best I can here," Henry grumbled. "It's not like—"

"Hey!" Carlton scowled. "Don't you think I would have wrestled him for that knife if I could have?"

"All right, I know!" Henry used his "larger-than-life" voice, the one he'd reserved for under-seventeen Shawn. The one that showed who was the boss.

"Shit," Lassiter muttered. "We got nothing out of him. No name, no reason he grabbed us, no good reason why he won't let us go."

"We did get a lot of good reasons to put a considerable distance between us and him," Henry muttered back, still slowly but surely working on his bonds.

"He's just . . . a squatter, a thief," Lassiter continued. "I'd bet he's not even a survivalist. Just a mentally disabled lunatic."

Henry raised an eyebrow. It wasn't like Lassiter to be so generous about any criminal, from the two-bit ones all the way through the psychopaths. "He also assaulted and kidnapped us, Carlton, and now he's holding us hostage, and he might be a murderer."

Carlton squinted at Henry and frowned. "I didn't forget, Spencer." As if to prove it, he began struggling against his ropes again. "_You_ forget he was talking crazy while holding a knife to my throat."

"Stop that, it's not helping," Henry said. Carlton's face was again growing flushed from even the minimal exertion. "I'm serious. You're going to end up with cut up and bruised wrists if you don't stop." With a huff of frustration, Lassiter stopped, sagging against the post again. "And for your edification, I did not forget. I was right here, watching it, and I didn't like it."

To Henry's surprise, Carlton chuckled. "What?"

Carlton shook his head. "Nothing. Nothing."

"Don't crack up on me yet, old man. We're getting out of here, I promise. And in the mean time, try not to pass out on me, okay? As soon as I can, I'll take a good look at the back of your head. And that cut on your face."

"You're a doctor now, Henry?" It wasn't malicious, just a half-amused comment.

"Just shut up, will you? We have to make do, we're in the middle of the woods."

"I know, I know," Carlton muttered. "But I'm fine." He ignored Henry's grunt.

Instead of watching Henry, Carlton craned his neck to look at the ceiling, and the windows, and silently ran through the nonsense the man had spouted. It helped to keep him focused and awake, and gave him something to consider other than his pain, his sickness and his fears. It had taken every ounce of self-control he'd had not to spit on the man when he touched his head. It was such an odd gesture, as were the accompanying words. _"You're darker than he was."_ What the hell? Darker than whom? The dead park ranger? Someone else? A cop? And darker in what way? Manner? Attitude? Coloring? The gesture was nearly familial, like some older brother mussing up his younger brother's hair.

Carlton gritted his teeth and tried to push that thought away. He hoped that the man wasn't secretly a psychopath who took them to recreate some family he killed a long time ago.

Earlier, he hadn't been trying to be "nice" when commenting about the man's criminal career. He was just making an observation from what little they'd seen and experienced of their captor. Still, was that adamant "It's not safe" crap meant as a warning to them, or a protection? But hell, tying up two men in a cabin to protect them? _Protect us from what?_ He shook his head and immediately regretted it; pain radiated up from the middle of his back to the top of his head, forcing him to close his eyes and moan. He wished he had some of that heavy-duty cold medicine, the good stuff that made him feel physically off—if that was even possible during a bout of the flu—for a few hours as it worked its way through his system. Or maybe four or five ibuprofen he wouldn't mind right now either.

"Lassiter!"

Carlton opened his eyes. "Not sleeping. In pain. Is that okay with you?"

"Not really, no. But that's not why I want your attention."

Carlton regarded him quizzically. "What's so impor— Oh. You did it."

Henry grinned, pulling his arms free of the post. He took a few moments to rub his wrists and arms, trying to encourage circulation as his fingers tingled with numbness. "Just a second. I'm going to go find a knife so I don't have to use my belt buckle to cut your ropes too."

Carlton's mouth dropped open. "You sneaky bastard! That's your definition of _'work smarter'_, Spencer? That's actually pretty sick."

"Hey, I told you not to struggle," Henry countered, maneuvering himself onto his hands and knees so he could use the post to stand up. His joints popped and he groaned at the stiffness in his muscles as he moved them for the first time in hours. He looked to the wall of stuff, searching for their stolen packs. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Carlton doing just that, struggling again, anxious to be out of his ropes. Shaking his head, he went to the back of the cabin.

"Will you hurry up, please?" Carlton grumbled after what seemed like a good five minutes or so of waiting. "Did you get lost back there?" He heard Henry clear his throat, but nothing followed, so he pressed, "Come _on, _Henry. We have no idea when that old crazy coot is going to come back. And if he's going to cut me for real this time or try to make us eat the bloody guts of some dead squirrel."

"I know," Henry replied quietly. He'd found their packs amid others, and had been restocking both with bottles of water and beef jerky, granola bars and anything else he could put his hands on—stuff, he surmised, that may have belonged to much unluckier hikers. He'd moved a blanket and was in the act of stuffing it into his pack when the sight underneath made him pause.

Henry just stared at the smashed-beyond-all-recognition pile of scraps. With a chill he hastily swallowed, he realized that there were more than two crushed cell phones here, but he didn't let himself think about it too long. He grabbed the pieces which most closely resembled their former phones and dropped the blanket back over the pile.

Henry carried their packs to the post where Lassiter was still tied and grunted as he lowered himself back to his knees. As much as his joints protested standing up, going down was no better. The older he got, the more his body felt its age, and he didn't like it one bit. With his son in the business he was in—and with all the trouble Shawn got into on an almost weekly basis—he wanted to be sharper and stronger and able to join in to help the way a much younger man in top shape could.

Lassiter sneezed and brought him out of his mini-rumination. Henry pulled out his Swiss from a pocket in his pack and opened the largest blade. As he began sawing at the ropes around Lassiter's wrists, the detective sneezed again. "Carlton, you've got to stay still. _I_ don't want to be the one to end up cutting you."

"I can't help it," Carlton muttered thickly, sniffling.

Henry rolled his eyes and decided to cut the rope around Carlton's chest first. It broke away quickly; with a long huff, Carlton leaned forward for the first time in hours. Henry turned his attention back to freeing Carlton's wrists, making a mental note of wrapping the detective's wrists with gauze later, when they were out of here. His own wrists were circled with red from the bonds, but minimally chaffed. The marks should fade in a few days. He guessed Carlton's would need about a week. Antiseptic and gauze, he added silently. "Got it."

Lassiter moved his arms, which felt like sore noodles attached to his shoulders. His chest felt like he'd received the crush of a seatbelt during a car accident, and he touched it gingerly with one palm. Ungracefully, he wiped his nose with the sleeve of his jacket, not having anything else handy.

"Can you get up?"

He looked up and saw Henry standing above him again, a wary expression on his face. "I'm fine," he grumbled, mimicking Henry's earlier method of standing, trying to ignore the way his wrists throbbed, his muscles ached. He tried to protest as Henry's arm swooped under his armpit and helped pull him up, but it was over too fast.

"Shit," he muttered, running his eyes up and down the cabin's overstuffed back wall. "Who the hell is this guy?"

"Let's not stick around to find out, okay?" Henry said. He picked up Lassiter's pack and handed it to him, not liking the way that Lassiter still had his hand on the post to steady himself. He pulled his own pack onto his shoulders.

Carlton stood still, taking in breaths through his mouth with his nose too stuffed up to do the job. He felt lightheaded, which he wasn't expecting, but knew he had to get himself together because this might be their only shot to run. He let his pack hang off one shoulder and followed Henry—who had given him a hard "get your ass in gear, old man" look—to the cabin's door. He touched his cheek, still hot, and then the back of his head, which was very tender. There was a trace of blood on his finger tips, but he hoped the cut was superficial. He didn't think he could sit still and allow Henry to sew up his head, if it came to that.

He gasped when Henry's hand clamped down on his upper arm. "Why aren't you moving?" Henry chided.

"I thought I was." It was the wrong answer, and earned another hard glare from Henry. Henry tightened his grip and pulled Carlton towards the doorway. Henry pushed the door open slowly, keeping Lassiter out of sight in case their captor was just outside.

Breathing a sigh a relief, Henry saw that they were alone, surrounded by tall trees on all sides. There was no sign of a fire or a camp site in the small clearing around the cabin; Henry didn't know if the man slept indoors or if there was another empty cabin nearby he'd taken over for sleeping. "Come on," he told Lassiter, and stepped outside.

It wasn't as dark—or as late—as he'd thought, but the air had a sharp tinge of ozone that he didn't like. He tried to see the sky but the trees were too thick above them.

"Where are we?" Lassiter asked beside him, looking around.

Henry shook his head. "We can't be too far from where we were. Not if he had to bring both of us here."

"So, then, which way?"

"You can't leave. It isn't safe," a raspy voice announced from behind them. Both men jumped and turned around. Henry stepped in front of Lassiter. Their captor now wore a grubby fishing vest and a pair of dripping wet rubber waders. The hunting knife dangled from his belt; a shotgun was clutched in both hands, pointing at the two of them. "Go back."

"You're not keeping us here," Henry retorted sharply, still raising one hand in surrender. "Not a second longer."

"Henry," Lassiter hissed behind him. "_Gun_."

"They'll just take your home, they'll take your self-worth," the man said. "They'll try to make you pay."

Henry leaned back, pressing his mouth to Lassiter's ear. "In three seconds, we're out of here. Turn and run as fast you can." Not waiting for a reply, Henry grabbed Lassiter's pack, still only halfway on his shoulder, and hurled it at their captor. The force of the heavy pack hit the man square in the face and knocked the gun out of his hands. At the same time, Henry whirled around and pushed Lassiter to do the same and the two of them scrambled for the trees.


End file.
